Anger
by bluecellphone
Summary: Sylar is recaptured by the Company and Mohinder wants to fix him. Mylar. Angst. Smut in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

The same disgusting gray walls.

The same freezing temperature penetrating the same thin, white tee shirt and cotton pants.

Sylar is angry, to say the least, at having been captured once again.

He's sore, pounding a bruised fist against the thick cement wall of his cell in frustration.

There's no observation window this time; no way for him to glare at the people poking, prodding, and monitoring him. For all he knows a hidden camera has taken its place and he's being watched, circling his cell and pacing like a caged animal much to their fucking enjoyment.

He tries not to think about how this all happened because his head is aching too much from physical and emotional pain. But the images of a rampant car chase and a bone-crushing crash replay in his mind. Sylar thinks they will forever; burned into his retinas as though at the time his brain thought to store it as a near-death experience.

For the first time, he curses his eidetic memory with a feral growl.

Bad luck, plain and simple, because Sylar is better than that.

He'd crashed just the right way; pinned between seat and ground to perfectly corner himself. He'd given the Company easy access with a needle full of drugs while too stunned from a head wound to fight back with his powers.

The simplicity of his capture nearly makes Sylar chuckle.

He settles for shaking his head instead, rubbing a battered eye socket tiredly.

Now, powerless presumably from whatever drug they pumped into his system, he can do nothing but wait for the anticipated welcoming committee.

He doesn't have to wait long – Sylar's impatient pacing is interrupted by his cell door flinging open.

He whirls on foot, skin scraping painfully against the roughness of the cold floor. Nonetheless, Sylar grits his teeth and puts on his most frightening scowl as Noah Bennet slides into his cell with two stout men trailing close behind. They hold threateningly large needles and one has a straight jacket draped over his shoulder.

"Welcome home, Gabriel."

Sylar matches Bennet's smirk, swallowing his pride.

"Noah Bennet. I thought you'd smartened up and ditched this place."

He takes a step forwards and ignores the two men as they do the same. Bennet waves them off, and that alone is enough to anger Sylar. Bennet thinks he's weak.

"We did some house cleaning. I run the Company now and things are done differently, as you'll see."

"Who'd you kill?" Sylar chuckles. He catches the uneasy twitch that falls across Bennet's face and his joke suddenly turns to a serious question. "Wow. You _murdered_ the head of the company? Tisk tisk, Noah."

"We did what we had to. I'm sure you're familiar with that."

"Quite. So what does this newly reformed Company want with little old me?"

Sylar walks in a slow circle, trailing his fingers along his bed (if it can even be called that – cement slab is more like it) and smiles at Bennet.

"I haven't lost my interest in learning how you work, Gabriel. Tell me, what exactly do you do with the brains?"

The redundancy is not lost on Sylar as he shakes his head in disappointment. If he didn't get out of here soon, he'd be questioned to death.

"That's it? You want to know if I eat the brains, and then you'll let me go."

He knows the answer before it falls from Noah's lips.

"Help us…_teach us_ how you gain the abilities, and we'll see if we can't work something out for you."

"Now, I have a hard time believing you're just going to…release me back into the wild. Free to take life again."

Noah shifts and flips open Sylar's thick file.

"We can't have that, can we?" he murmurs, scanning down a page.

"You'll kill me. That doesn't give me much incentive to help you, does it?"

Bennet looks up and grins with an 'I know something you don't know' glimmer behind his eyes.

"Let's just say we're hoping you'll change your mind about being a normal member of society."

"Normal?" Sylar sits down onto his bed and cross his arms. "_Normal_? That's so…bland. Nice try. Come on, what aren't you telling me, Noah?"

His file is slapped closed and Bennet seems lost in thought for several moments before clearing his throat.

"We've assigned one of our best doctors to work with you. I'm sure you'll show him the same courtesy you've shown me, Gabriel." Noah tilts his head much like Sylar does when he's peering into the very soul of another human being.

"I'm still not convinced."

"You will be Gabriel. You can help us, and we can help you. We're willing to give it time, if you are."

Noah nods to him and there is something there; something foreign and scary to Sylar. The other man's face seems genuinely promising and concerned. Sylar fights back a shiver at the unfamiliar compassion.

"He'll be in first thing tomorrow," Bennet shoots over his shoulder before slipping out the door, his goons following like they're attached to a leash.

Sylar scoffs out loud as the lights shut off, wondering just how stupid they think he is.

He didn't sleep but a few hours that night.

Tossing and turning on a poor excuse for a bed, Sylar's mind raced with excitement and anticipation at how he was going to turn their game around on them.

He awoke to his door opening and a metal tray clanking loudly against the floor.

Breakfast.

Something Sylar hadn't taken the time to enjoy in quite a while. Life on the run wasn't exactly brimming with luxuries, he'd learned quickly.

Rubbing an eye he gazes in disgust at the pitiful meal on the floor of his cage; a couple pieces of toast, a juice box, and a single crusted egg. Delicious.

Sylar would have just as soon thrown it against the walls of his cell, being the animal they assumed he was, but the excitement of his upcoming visitor was enough to keep him in check.

Nerves are getting the better of him, though, as he sits on his bed, staring at his only nourishment in a few days. Sylar decides to relent in his stubbornness when his stomach growls angrily at him.

He crawls over to the tray and picks up a piece of burnt toast, nibbling around the edge.

It is rock hard, like everything else in this place.

Sliding the tray away from himself, his heart skips a beat at the sound of keys clanking against the other side of his door. There is a distinct click of inner locks and a soft sweep as it pushes open.

He stands, preparing his best grin, only to stumble back in shock at who walks through.

This situation is all too familiar.

A door swinging open to reveal an unsure beauty; dark, golden skin glimmering in any light – real or artificial – ebony curls lying haphazardly in a mop of messy hair, and there is always that one single strand of curly lock that hangs down.

Drapes in front of large, sparkling, midnight eyes.

Sylar balls his fists and fights the urge to lunge at the man.

Why? He couldn't say. Anger, fear, instinct, lust, dominance; or simply the need to hurt.

The want to destroy something that is too beautiful for words and can never be his. Because if he can't have him in all of his breathtaking glory, nobody can.

His doctor hesitates at the door, clearly taken back by Sylar's entranced gaze.

He smoothes out the long, white lab coat – that would look boring on any other man, Sylar notes – and swallows before taking the final steps through a dangerous threshold. Into the forced domain of a trapped murderer.

Sylar's stare is broken only as the same two men from yesterday push in after him, equipment in hand; ready to take him down with a single word from his doctor.

He looks from them, back to enchanting eyes, not speaking a damn word. If he tries to talk, he fears, his voice will have run away from him.

This most certainly was not what he had expected. Mohinder Suresh is supposed to hate him; loathe the very air he breathes. And Sylar was growing embarrassingly hard at the very sight of an old friend – enemy – that he's dreamt about taking for more nights than he can count.

What kind of sick game is this?

"Sylar," Mohinder states in his own form of a nervous greeting. There is no malice in his voice, no condescending tones. He speaks as though they've met before on no more than boring terms.

"You."

It's all he can say for his brain isn't even working. It's his heart that pushes the word through a clenched throat.

Mohinder nods to the men who close the door and stay back as the doctor paces cautiously forwards, setting down a tray of tools on his bed. By now, Sylar is standing with his back to the opposite wall, mouth open in a combination of shock and thrill.

"What're you…_why_ are you…"

He blinks in rapid succession as Mohinder concentrates on filling a syringe with what Sylar would have assumed to be the drug blocking his abilities – if his mind was in proper working order.

"They asked me if I wanted to try and help you." Mohinder swallows and looks up. "I said yes."

It's simple, really, and Mohinder states it as though Sylar will understand completely.

Understand how Mohinder is willing to forgive so easily and why he wants to help a man he should despise? A man he _did_ despise the last time they met?

Sylar laughs. He can't escape it as it bubbles up from his gut and causes him to grip his hair in near insanity at the situation.

Mohinder's eyes squint at the display as he approaches Sylar with a readied needle.

"Give me your arm please."

The laughing halts abruptly and they stare – just stare into each other's eyes for several moments and Sylar can hear nothing but the soft, calm breath escaping Mohinder's parted lips.

He's waiting patiently for Sylar to extend an arm but he can't for the life of him understand why Mohinder Suresh is standing in front of him relaxed and collected like they hadn't been trying to hurt each other for the past 6 months.

His eyes flick to the men at the door, and then back down to Mohinder, whose face is completely unreadable.

"Have they brainwashed you, Suresh? Why aren't you trying to kill me right now?" Sylar asks as he offers his right arm.

Mohinder frowns slightly before swabbing his bicep with an antiseptic pad and sliding the needle in – a lot nicer than he had the last two times they'd played with medical equipment.

He injects the drug and Sylar grits his teeth, knowing what it is already starting to do to his precious powers.

"I have no desire to kill you," Mohinder replies after removing the needle. He dabs the injection site clean and turns back to his tray.

"I find that hard to believe. Did they wipe your memories? Have you forgotten that I killed your father?"

Sylar is growing concerned – what? _Concerned_?

Mohinder acts a little too different and something isn't right.

"I will never forget that. Please sit on the bed."

He's instructing Sylar like any doctor would do to a patient; clinical but not detached. There's too much familiarity in his soft tone.

Sylar scratches the back of his head before obeying Mohinder's request. He walks a few steps and then sits down next to the tray, watching Mohinder prepare another needle.

"Is it alright if I take a blood sample?"

_Did you really just ask permission for that? _

"You've already pumped me full of drugs, I doubt I could stop you," he says slyly, eyeing the men standing stoically by the door.

"The serum isn't meant to harm you, Sylar. It's for our safety as well as yours."

Mohinder wraps a band of rubber tightly around Sylar's bicep.

"Right, leaving me defenseless to whatever you feel like doing. I understand."

The bite in his words phases Mohinder who simply shakes his head, cleaning the inside of Sylar's left arm before slipping the needle expertly into a vein.

"We don't want to hurt you."

From any other person, he wouldn't have believed that. But something about the low sadness in Mohinder's voice made the phrase feel more like _I don't want to hurt you_.

A full sample of blood is drawn and Sylar winces slightly when the needle is removed. He can already feel bruises forming on both arms. Mohinder places a tiny band aid over the area and then sighs through his nose as he grabs a stethoscope from the tray.

"I'm just going to check your vitals."

"You don't have to explain everything to me like I'm a child, Mohinder. I've been here before."

"Right. Of course."

Mohinder looks almost embarrassed and Sylar returns the look with one of confusion. How much sarcastic bite does he have to throw at Suresh to get a response?

Sylar narrows his eyes and watches Mohinder intently as the man listens to his heart, his breathing; asking Sylar to take in deep breaths before scribbling the data down in his file.

"Am I healthy?"

He's fishing for anger – hoping Mohinder will use the phrase 'unfortunately, yes' in his response.

"Perfectly. Everything looks and sounds good. Are you feeling well?"

Sylar can't take it any longer. The obvious disregard for their past is driving him more insane than this tiny cell ever could.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Mohinder? I don't know what kind of mind fuck they're trying to play on me here, but you're too smart to be controlled by them."

A hint of anger shows on Mohinder's face, bordering on frustration.

"They're not controlling me; I'm here on my own desire."

"And they told you to pretend like I didn't try to kill everyone you love? Like I didn't kidnap you three months ago and threaten to kill Molly?"

_Come on Mohinder, give me something. Anything to show me that this isn't all a game._

Mohinder pinches the bridge of his nose and sits down on the bed next to Sylar.

"Are you familiar with the Buddhist monk Thich Hanh?"

"No…not at all."

He shifts more towards Sylar and licks his lips, excitement and passion brewing behind wide eyes.

"He's a very inspirational man who has dedicated his life to helping others. He teaches how to focus energy to rejuvenate parts of one's life that have been shattered by anger. I've been reading his manuscripts lately and-"

"So you're forgetting everything that's happened, everything I've done, because of something a book tells you?"

"Not forgetting. If I try to hurt you then I'm no better than you are. Out of everything bad comes something good, and that includes all the rage and hurt you've caused. I believe I can turn it around and, well, _help_ you."

His face is caring, needy, visibly striving to make good on a false hope.

Sylar thinks this is what being in shock feels like. His limbs won't move, his mouth is dry, and his brain is fuzzy from overload. Or is it the drugs….

"That is ridiculous, Mohinder, and you know it. You can't help me, nobody can."

He wants the fight, he wants the struggle. He wants the pain because the ache, physical and emotional, separates him from this penitentiary. And he can't for God's sake understand this sudden turn of events.

"I'm sorry you feel that way. Maybe I can change your mind."

Sylar stares in awe as Mohinder gets up and steps gracefully over a tray of untouched food, staring down at it when he passes.

"Is this what they're feeding you?" He looks back up with a grin, and that smile, _oh God_ that smile; it snaps Sylar out of his astonishment and he shakes his head, looking at his breakfast and shrugging.

"Prison food."

Eyes connecting with Mohinder's once more, he beams, because the friendly smirk hasn't faded from dark lips.

"I'll see if I can't get you some real cuisine," Mohinder says as he turns and nods to the men who open the door. Before stepping through he throws a final courtesy at Sylar, one most unexpected.

"Oh, and an actual bed. Would you like that?"

"Very much. I can't really sleep at night," he replies with skepticism in his voice.

"Done."

With that Mohinder leaves Sylar in his cold cell, two sore arms and a mind tripping over itself in confusion.

Yes, things were getting very interesting.

Mohinder returns in the evening and Sylar is nearly as shocked as he was that morning.

It gives him hope that he'll see his doctor many times a week.

Shock fades to joy at the site of a large, brown paper bag in one of Mohinder's hands, a rolling desk chair pushed by the other.

And of course, two annoyingly silent men attached to him.

"Nourishment," Mohinder smiles, setting the bag on Sylar's bed. "Though I'm not sure how edible it is. They tore it apart on my way inside looking for weapons. Must think I'm going to break you out."

He chuckles and then frowns at a hopeful glint in Sylar's eye.

"What is it? Or…what _was_ it?"

"Chinese food. Soup and Lo Mein. I got you the same thing you ordered that night in Montana."

They share a silent gaze, memories flooding into both minds. Mohinder breaks the gape and sits in the chair, knee to knee with his patient.

"Thank you."

Sylar reaches in and pulls out a plastic container of soup, still hot, and pops the lid off.

Spicy aromas drift up with steam and overpower his senses with more recollections of a cold night – two strangers talking about anything and everything over take-out to better acquaint themselves on a starchy motel bed.

"No problem. Though, I don't want you to get your hopes up on this being a regular thing. I don't think they'd let me, nor would I be able to afford it."

He nods to Mohinder, sipping the soup quietly after failing to find a spoon in the brown bag.

_They took the utensils out because obviously I can kill a man with a flimsy piece of plastic_, he thinks sarcastically.

"I don't expect it. I just haven't eaten anything since a few days before the car crash."

"I meant to ask you about that this morning. Anything unbearably sore?"

Mohinder's eyes dance over various cuts and bruises peppering visible, pale skin.

Sylar sips, shaking his head.

"No. I was able to shield myself from any perilous blows with telekinesis. The resulting cuts are just heavy reminders of my mistakes."

"Mistakes, yes, and unfortunate. For what it's worth they were going to capture you in a much calmer manner. You ran and they panicked."

"I wonder why."

A challenging look makes its way back into Sylar's murky eyes and Mohinder represses a shiver.

He clears his throat and motions to the soup.

"Is it good?"

"Could be better."

"Ah. Well, tell me what you might like differently in the future and I'll try to sneak you things on occasion. If we make progress, that is."

"I get it. Be a good boy and get rewarded with treats. Is that it, Mohinder?"

"Of course not. I would just like everything to stay positive in here."

"Positive? I'm locked in a cement box. Poked and prodded, no sunlight, no fresh air. Barely enough room to walk. And _privacy_? Completely out of the question. This is far from positive."

To Mohinder, Sylar doesn't sound angry or frustrated – his voice cracks slightly and he can hear the desperation underneath; the sorrow of having to relive a nightmare again.

"I know, and I apologize. Unfortunately that part of the situation is not under my control. I am, however, working on that bed for you."

_Too nice, too forgiving. Wrong, this is all wrong. _

"I suppose this is what I deserve, isn't it Mohinder?" Sylar is speaking matter-of-factly, stating what they both already know. He's not even sure if it's a plea or idle conversation. "After everything I've done, it only makes sense to be locked up and shut out from the world."

"No." Mohinder slides his chair forwards so that their knees touch, just barely. "There's so much you can do out there, so many good things. This is all temporary, remember that."

"And what makes you sure that I can change? That I _will _change?"

"Because I know who you used to be. I see that man inside you still. You don't enjoy killing, as much as you'd like to convince everyone otherwise, and you want some part of your life to be ordinary. Everybody needs that. You wanted to be special? Known by many? You've achieved that. Now its time to stop and fix the things you've broken by being a good man. I won't let you waste everything you've worked so hard to gain by destroying more lives, including your own."

He fights for a response, the vision of Mohinder's stern face blurring behind a shroud of painfully hot tears. Nothing comes to his tongue in defense because there is _nothing_; he knows Mohinder is right. And the level of self sacrifice Mohinder is offering him is something that Sylar cannot comprehend, because nobody has ever shown him that much care.

He drops his eyes and stares at the soup on his lap, combating tears from taking a plummeting leap and bestowing vulnerability.

"Just, please, Sylar. Open up a little to me because I _want_ to help. I hope you believe that. "

The lack of response from his patient causes Mohinder to shift uncomfortably before scooting back and standing. Sylar's gaze falls to the side, fingers curling too tightly around the warm plastic at his inability to express anguish.

"If all goes well they'll be bringing in an extra mattress for you sometime tonight."

He doesn't even nod in response and Mohinder fears that he's said something wrong, crossing all boundaries of their 'connection' and upsetting Sylar.

Mohinder sighs and turns to leave.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning," he says quietly, oblivious to the glimmering eyes burning into his back when the door clicks shut.

Bewildered but still very hungry, Sylar sniffles lightly and sets the soup aside, digging through the rest of the bag. He pulls out a couple of white containers, opened and spilling their contents from rough treatment by skeptical guards.

Fingers fumbling for any remaining food, his hand strikes something that he's not sure if Mohinder either forgot about, or wanted to surprise him with.

Sylar pulls out a book, 'Anger' by Thich Hanh, and brushes off a few stray pieces of rice from its cover.

It's used - Mohinder's own copy, Sylar assumes, as he flips through and catches many highlighted pages sprinkled with Mohinder's polished scrawl.

He cant resist the urge to bring the soft pages to his nose and breathe deeply; taking in the scent of a man and an apartment that he's longed for so many hours of so many days.

If Mohinder really did want to help as much as he was promising, he could use that to his advantage. The thought never crosses his mind that this can be an opportunity for genuine change.

Sylar brings a finger-pinch full of rice to his mouth as he turns to the first page, hoping Mohinder's choice in reading material will drown out tormenting thoughts about the tense confessions of his day.


	2. Chapter 2

**-Day 3-**

"I see they brought you another mattress."

Sylar nods, glancing down at the thicker hunk of cushion underneath him.

"It thwarts the back problems you people are trying to give me."

Mohinder sits down in his rolling desk chair a few feet from Sylar. He'd managed to convince Noah that he only needed one guard for protection, making the room feel a lot less claustrophobic. Making him feel like he wasn't been watched so intensely.

He opens a notebook and clicks his pen, jotting down the date and a few other things that Sylar wishes he could read.

"Try not to sound so negative about us. We just want to-"

"-Help. Yes. I got that the fifth time you said it."

Mohinder's frown does not go unnoticed. To avoid it and the accompanying guilt, Sylar swings his legs up and lays back on the bed, tucking long arms behind his head. He narrows his brown eyes at the ceiling, unable to look at Mohinder for fear of beauty trapping him into saying things he doesn't want to.

"So, what's your weapon of torture today, Doc?" He croons sarcastically. "More blood samples? Or…" Sylar pauses, grinning, "…tuning forks?"

"Very funny. I just want to talk, if that's alright with you."

Mohinder rolls his chair forwards so that he's closer to the bed, and Sylar can't help but shift uncomfortably at the proximity. Being near Mohinder with the air lacking usual tension is unnerving and foreign…it makes him feel like Zane Taylor again.

"Are we discussing our _feelings _today?"

He's a bit embarrassed by the childish snap in his tone, but it's the only defense that comes to mind to balance out such a powerless situation.

Nonetheless, Mohinder smiles. Sylar doesn't have to be looking at him – he can _sense _it.

"If you'd like. I'm more interested in your childhood, your family, and what it was like growing up in the Gray household."

"Ah, you're a psychologist now."

He finally locks eyes with the doctor. Sylar's childhood isn't something he's eager to discuss, even with the only person alive able to make him feel utterly at ease.

"Hardly," Mohinder chuckles.

"So then my childhood is important, _why_ exactly?"

"Records. Just gathering a basic history."

Mohinder swallows nervously when Sylar spins to sit up and face him, his expression dangerous.

"Come on, Mohinder, don't lie. You're trying to delve deep into my mind, hoping to discover what makes me _tick._" He slants towards the other man, fingers gripping the mattress.

"Of-of course not," Mohinder stammers, leaning back slightly.

_Oh there's that delicious fear. That savory hesitation._

It's nice to know Sylar still has it. Intimidation came natural to him the day Gabriel Gray withered away in his mind and he took over; he didn't intend on losing that any time soon, no matter how much they tried to break him down. For now, the only thing keeping him sane was the prospect of hearing Mohinder's sweet voice every day; smelling his spicy sent and watching those luscious lips fumble over an exotic accent. He decides, for the time being, to indulge in this part of the game, if only to keep Mohinder around as a distraction.

Sylar breaks his glare and smiles, much to Mohinder's confusion.

"Go on, then."

He lies back down under a blinking gaze and clasps his hands, waiting.

Clearing his throat and shaking the shock away, Mohinder jots more notes down before starting the interview.

"Right. Well, would you mind telling me about your family? Parents and any siblings you may have?"

"_Had_, Mohinder. Had. I'm alone and you know it."

"Sorry…had."

Even without super-hearing Sylar picks up the frustrated breath.

"No harm done. I had a workaholic father and an extremely devout mother. No brothers or sisters, unfortunately."

"Why unfortunately?" Mohinder asks, eyes trained down as he scribbles Sylar's words.

"I would've had someone else to take the brunt of their insanity."

"Why did you think they were insane?"

"Is that important for my records, Mohinder?"

"No, I'm just curious, really."

_Liar._

"Do you think it's any of your personal business, then?"

"I suppose not, but this is part of getting to know you better."

Sylar would prefer moving on from this topic as soon as possible and he fears, yes _fears_, Mohinder's stubborn nature.

"_Fine_. My father would come home from a fifteen-hour workday at Gray and Son's, _screaming_ at me for not putting away the tools he allowed me to use when tinkering with old watches. Then he'd beat my mother because she was pleading for him to calm down and pray. On the nights I was lucky, he'd hit me hard enough to knock me out and I was able to sleep through her obnoxiously loud sobbing. I was never aloud out to go anywhere besides school because my father always had something to punish me for, and my higher-than-holy mother feared letting me roam this big _bad_ world. I spent my childhood alone, locked in my room, fixing anything I could get my hands on and nursing wounds from a selfish father. Did you get all that, Mohinder, or would you like me to repeat it for you?"

Mohinder's expression is blank and gaping.

"Did that really happen?"

"Why would I lie about it?"

_I've never told anybody that before._

"That's…terrible."

"Yes and if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to forget about it again. So finish writing it down in your little notebook and let's move on."

Mohinder nods, frowning for Sylar yet feeling an odd sense of pride for having gotten the man to open up. When he's finished writing he asks a question that he knows could be equally as damaging.

"How did they die?"

"My father died in a car crash."

A certain glimmer passes through Sylar's eyes; a hint of joy. Mohinder forgoes writing it down considering that some things should be left personal.

"And your mother?"

He watches Sylar's chest rise and fall in quickened breathing; notes the curl of his fingers against white cloth and the clench of his jaw.

"Accidental murder."

Voice low and dangerous, Sylar closes his eyes. Mohinder is about to tell him he doesn't need to press the matter when-

"I killed her."

"You…you killed her?" He withholds the shock from his voice. Sylar's heard plenty of that today.

"Yes. She attacked me and I defended myself."

And then Mohinder says something that he's not sure if he means or not.

"Good." Both sets of eyes widen and Mohinder fumbles to correct himself. "I-I mean, good…that you were able to stop her because…well its not good but-"

"You think what I did was right?"

Mohinder sighs.

"If she truly was attacking you then, yes. Every human has the animalistic right to protect themselves, Sylar. You can't be blamed for acting on instinct."

Mohinder notices the tears, he thinks, before Sylar does. The shaky quiver in Sylar's voice alludes to deep-seeded pain that even he can't console.

"I was just trying to stop her…she had scissors and was in hysterics after I showed her what I could do…how special I was."

Nodding in understanding, Mohinder reaches out and touches his hand. Sylar's eyes close tightly, forcing tears down his temples.

He's sure Sylar could have done something else to calm his mother down; possibly used his telekinesis to rid her of the weapon, or even simply leave her home. But he isn't one to question others acting on enraged emotions in the heat of the moment. Of that he is guilty as well; most everyone is. Mohinder is quickly realizing just how human and how emotionally frail Sylar is.

He makes sure to write that down for the Company to read.

**-Day 5-**

Mohinder walks into the cell with two cups of coffee on a tray and the treasured notebook under his arm. Motioning to the guard pushing his chair, he turns worried eyes on Sylar, asleep on the bed.

He looks pale and is much skinnier than Mohinder would like, curled into himself like a child. How odd, he thinks, that it's so easy to sneak up on a man superior at lurking in the shadows.

Setting the coffee down and placing a palm on his patient's forehead, Mohinder frowns at clammy skin.

"Sylar?"

The man stirs, grunting once before rolling over.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, tired," Sylar replies before clearing his throat.

"You feel a little warm."

Both men realize at once that Mohinder's hand is lingering on his forehead.

It feels nice to Sylar; a little balmy but pleasurably soft, and the way it curves gently against his brow – Sylar doesn't mind it there at all.

He's grinning at the contact and can't help but smile wider when Mohinder blushes and jerks his hand away.

Sylar sits up, rubbing the smirk from his tired face.

"I'm fine. Really."

He takes the coffee that Mohinder is holding in front of him and sips it lightly.

"You don't look fine. I'll need another blood sample today to make sure you're not sick."

Glancing down at his bruised arms, Sylar frowns.

"How sweet of you to care, Mohinder."

"It's my job."

"Ah, so you admit that you don't really care. That you're only doing what they ask of you?"

Mohinder stops in the middle of preparing Sylar's arm and glares angrily.

"Was Gabriel Gray this incredulous?"

"Quite the opposite, actually. He hardly spoke."

"I'm sure it befell him nicely. It'd be wise to revert back, you know."

"Ouch!" Sylar hisses, both at Mohinder's sharp words and at the needle jammed into the crook of his arm. Finally, the Mohinder he remembers. "That wasn't a nice thing to say."

"Sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Yes you did or you wouldn't have said it."

Mohinder pulls the needle out, covering the tiny wound.

"Alright, I meant it a little."

The grin he flashes entrances Sylar and their knees are touching again and – _God_, Sylar has to dig his nails into the mattress to keep from leaping forwards to devour his doctor.

"I'm never going to be him again."

"That doesn't mean you can't be kind to people like he was."

"You consider locking yourself in a watch shop like a hermit and only talking to paying customers _kind_?"

Mohinder sighs, choosing his words carefully.

"Was it _you_ or Gabriel Gray who murdered Brian Davis?"

"Me, after your father killed Gabriel and created me."

Gritting his teeth and biting his tongue, Mohinder tries desperately to push the thought of his father away.

"So, Gabriel never murdered anyone, correct?"

"Correct."

"And he helped people every day, fixing watches and staying out of trouble."

"So?"

"Then he was a kind, decent human being, working like everyone else and doing something he was passionate about."

"I can't go back to that, Mohinder!" Sylar yells, voice booming off the cement walls.

"You don't have to!" Mohinder's shout matches Sylar's in an attempt to dominate the conversation.

"Then what do you _want_ from me?!"

"Stop killing people, and help them instead! Its really quite simple, Sylar, and it sure as _hell_ doesn't take intuitive aptitude to figure out how!"

And then without warning, it happens. Sylar doesn't know if it's because he's been a caged animal for a week now, or that Mohinder is screaming and looking sexier than ever.

The reasons why are lost on Sylar when he closes the gap between their bodies and crashes his lips against Mohinder's. Their teeth clank and blood rushes from the site of impact, bruising and shocking them both into a kiss that lasts, unmoving, for several seconds.

Sylar is the one to pull away.

His eyes flick from Mohinder's shocked face to a nervously approaching guard.

"Doctor Suresh?" The man questions, snapping Mohinder out of his daze.

"It's fine!" Mohinder stands to stop him just as Sylar covers his face, blushing.

Wait, _blushing_? Sylar doesn't blush. Gabriel Gray blushes, Zane Taylor blushes for _Christ's sake_ but never, _never_ Sylar. Blushing is a weakness by showing emotions and he'll be damned if he lets Mohinder see.

There is a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Sylar? It's alright."

He mumbles against his palms, "Just leave."

"Leave?"

"I want to be alone."

_Go, or I'll jump you and take what I want._

Mohinder hesitates before letting his hand fall away. His voice sounds hurt and now Sylar really _can't _look up because he knows what that face looks like when it's sad – how it contorts into the prettiest, wide-eyed, mouth-turned-down visage he's ever seen. He hadn't been able to look away from it that night in Montana after Mohinder had seen Dale's body. Such a tragically debauched, tear-stained face that Sylar couldn't resist kissing and licking, much to Mohinder's comfort; scraping clingy, needy hands on Sylar's shirt while that face rubbed against his chest.

The memory is replaying in Sylar's mind and _fuck_, Mohinder needs to leave his cell _right_ _now_ before he does more than just kiss the man.

"Alright. I'll run your blood sample and come back tomorrow."

Sylar nods, eyes closed tightly, unable to escape the images plaguing his thoughts.

He hears Mohinder shuffle out and the door click softly. When he finally removes his hands his face is bright red, eyes brimming with tears of frustration over something he can't have. Something that a presumably dead part of himself craves to the point of making him feel sick.

Sick with love? That's disgusting and _weak._

"Fuck you, Gabriel Gray."

* * *

Sylar wakes in his dark, quiet cell in the middle of the night to a welcome surprise. Mohinder's hands are smoothing out the company-issued shirt on his chest, running teasing fingers down his torso. They slip under the cloth and Sylar takes in a sharp breath because they're colder than usual.

"Mohinder?"

"Shhh."

And then Mohinder is straddling him on the tiny bed, both men groaning in unison when straining erections rub together. Mohinder leans down to kiss Sylar's neck; soft and gentle, sending electric sparks across his flesh.

Sylar reaches up to finger the curls tickling his chin but he feels so weak; arms tired, slow, and –

"_Oh, God!_"

Mohinder licks and sucks the hollow behind his ear, grinding down against him with just the right roll of hips to create teasing friction.

Warm lips are against his ear next – hot breath invading his hearing – and Mohinder's voice is low; seducing.

"I've realized something."

"What's that?" Sylar pants. Teeth nibble on his earlobe, biting too roughly.

The sharp pain fades instantly when Mohinder's hand snakes under the elastic of his pants.

"That you'll never change."

Mohinder squeezes Sylar's erection to annunciate words that weigh down like a boulder on his chest.

"And you still want me?"

His husky, whining voice sounds desperate but Sylar could care less. He needs this so much and Mohinder is warm, soft, writhing with desire and_so good_ with his tongue. The wet muscle licks a stripe up his neck and pushes into his ear – he nearly comes from that alone.

Mohinder's hand massages with conviction as he pulls back. Both men squint to see each other's eyes in the dark but Sylar can hardly control his vision, lids fluttering closed in ecstasy.

"I want you to tell me."

"Tell you what?" He gasps when a thumb circles the head of his cock.

"Tell me what you do with the brains."

Sylar tenses, eyes flying open. _This was all part of the game?_

"What? Get off of me, Mohinder!"

The lights in his cell flick on without warning, and Mohinder's face shows clear as day. It's hard, angry, and serious. Sylar shivers at the look in dark eyes; a dazzling fury that he knows too well.

"_Tell me._"

He could just as easily match Mohinder's anger because this level of trickery is low. He'd been trying, _really_ trying to open up to Mohinder, and the man just throws it away like this?

"_Go to hell_."

Several tense moments pass, the two staring intensely into each other's eyes, vying silently for dominance. It's Mohinder who ultimately wins.

"Lead the way, Sylar." No sooner had the venomous words slipped from his lips did Mohinder's hands connect with Sylar's throat.

He chokes instantly, desperately trying to take in what little air the inhuman grip will allow. He's strangled people of his own before; primarily to play with them before thieving their ability. But as his lungs begin to burn with a hungry, deprived rage, Sylar's gut twists for not having known how terrible it feels to suffocate.

Scratching at Mohinder; his face, shoulders, chest, hands; Sylar can't find purchase anywhere on him. The weight on his throat increases when Mohinder leans forward, bringing his lips to Sylar's and breathing a simple request into his mouth.

"_Die."_

Sylar sits up in his bed, gasping for air and clawing at a pale neck. Drenched in sweat, he scans the pitch black room looking for someone that isn't really there. His heart pounds blood to a brain trying to recover from the nightmare that's been haunting him since the day Mohinder Suresh pointed a gun at his face, and pulled the trigger.


	3. Chapter 3

**-Day 6-**

The next morning Mohinder surprises Sylar with a chocolate-chip pancake breakfast for two.

It's brought in to the sleeping man who seems to be in too much of a daze to care at first, sitting up to take a small bite in a zombie-like state. Despite being nearly comatose, Sylar's face seems to brighten at the taste with each swallow, and so does Mohinder's accomplished grin.

The two men eat in silence, Mohinder noting Sylar's mildly shaking body and even paler visage, but making it a point not to say anything about it. Worry over potential illness is keeping him awake at night and similar toil is not something Sylar needs at the moment.

Instead he chooses to break the quiet atmosphere with reminiscence.

"Are they good?" he asks, motioning to Sylar's paper plate. He was grateful after having convinced security that Sylar could not, in fact, kill himself or anyone else with a plastic fork, and that the utensil was needed to consume his meal.

"Yes," Sylar responds with a mouthful. "How'd you know that it's my favorite?"

"You only ordered it every morning during our road trip, Sylar."

Mohinder chuckles to himself at the memory of a hunched Zane Taylor – no, _Sylar_ – scooping mouthfuls of pancake between his lips like he'd not eaten in days. The man would blush afterwards, wiping gobs of excess syrup away on the diner napkin. Just like those teenage-hearted mornings, Mohinder is now resisting the urge to lick sticky brown sugar clean from the edges of Sylar's mouth. Had it not been for their surroundings and the ominous guard behind him, he fears he would have.

"I suppose I did," Sylar says quietly with a small smirk.

Mohinder watches him chew; the soft jut of his jaw when it clenches shut, the way his eyes are trained down while he meticulously cuts tiny bites out of his food. For a moment, just a moment, he closes his eyes and tries to dissolve the angry gray walls away and replace them with ones of soft, muted browns and pale blues. What this imagined room is he's not sure; a home, possibly an apartment. A kitchen within what establishment the two would have chosen to tuck themselves away in. And he feels for a split second – the briefest of faux realities this fucked up life will allow – that he's sharing breakfast in freedom with the only real companion he's ever had. The only other man on this earth that's ever stimulated him, mentally and physically, and made him feel complete in every sense of the word. Whole. But his eyes open with the soft creak of Sylar shifting on his bed, and the cement walls erase an impossible waking fantasy.

"Are you done?" It's the first thing that leaps from Mohinder's mouth, trying to ignore Sylar's tongue and the efficient job it's doing at cleaning gluey sugar from pink lips.

"…Done?" the man asks, glancing down at his plate of half-finished pancakes and looking adorably like he doesn't want to give the rest up. Mohinder suddenly realizes that his question makes little sense, as even he himself didn't think it through before speaking.

He shakes his head and chuckles a bit, more at his own aloofness.

"Not with your pancakes. Are you done with... _collecting_?"

"Collecting?" Sylar's eyebrow quirks and he's suddenly lost his appetite. What he'd wanted to be a pleasantly silent breakfast was turning into another of Mohinder's annoying question and answer sessions.

"Abilities. Don't you think you have enough?" There's a certain lilt of hope lining Mohinder's words and Sylar realizes this isn't one for his Company file. This is Mohinder trying desperately to deepen his understanding and connection with a man he's baffled with and captivated by. Who could blame him? If only he knew the reciprocation behind that adoration.

"No." And he truly doesn't. Sylar knows he won't feel accomplished until he has more power than anyone alive.

"Why not?"

With a sigh he shoves his unfinished plate into Mohinder's lap and lays back down, rolling over. Avoidance, he knows, is childish. But with Mohinder the chase can be just as fun as the reward.

He's not surprised when Mohinder's concerned face pops up on the other side of the bed; the doctor kneeling beside him.

"Are you alright?"

"Wonderful."

"Then please answer my question."

"Why does it matter so much, Mohinder?"

"I truly would like to know, Sylar."

"Why?"

"Because," Mohinder pauses, shifting his weight on the hard concrete floor. Sylar thinks Mohinder's knees to be in pain until he sees the man digging in his pocket, eyes darting up to the guard at the door. "I'm curious."

He narrows his eyes at Mohinder who is still looking towards the door, not paying any attention to his patient at all. He wants to wave his hands in Mohinder's face to regain attention. _Look at me, here I am, on the bed waiting for you to keep asking me questions and keep me sane in this tiny cage!_

"Mohinder?"

"Uh, yes, sorry." Finally, Mohinder snaps attention back down to Sylar. He stops fidgeting inside his pocket and places a palm on the sheet beside Sylar's arm, touching it barely. "Because I'd like to form some kind of friendship with you but I doubt I can do that if you plan on continuing to kill my friends."

Hearing that statement outside of his head nearly makes Mohinder laugh in the pure hilarity of it. The man he's smitten with will surely try to kill everyone he cares about the second he's free, and yet he can't stop himself from playing Sylar's mental game of love and hate.

Sylar ignores Mohinder's statement for the time being, eyes flicking down to his khaki pocket and then back up to his face. The expression of his doctor, he notes, is quite unreadable at the moment. It's as though Mohinder isn't even there.

Without warning the guard at the door jumps, reaching to his belt loop and unhitching a beeper. Sylar rolls over to watch the commotion of a large, fumbling man trying desperately to figure out how to calm the seizing electronic device. When he looks back, Mohinder is grinning.

"Doctor Suresh?" The guard's voice booms.

"Yes?"

"I'm needed in wing C, are you alright for a few minutes?"

"Yes of course, perfectly fine. I'll just give him his shot and go back to my office."

Nodding hastily the guard rushes out the door as if he'll be fired if he doesn't get there soon.

Sylar's grin matches Mohinder's while he watches his doctor pull a cell phone out of his pocket, read the fake message he'd just sent, and snap it closed again.

"That ought to give us a few minutes alone."

"Alone?"

Mohinder nods, lust overtaking his drooping eyes as he swallows hard, staring down at Sylar's mouth.

"I'd like to try something," he whispers, unsure of exactly what will happen but willing to take the chance.

Then he's craning his neck and dipping lower, ghosting lips against Sylar's, and enjoying the way both sets of soft, sensitive skin stick to each other from left-over syrup.

_This isn't really a kiss_, Mohinder tells himself. _Our mouths are touching, yes, but it doesn't mean anything until_ –

His thoughts are cut off when he feels Sylar's tongue slip past his lips; warm, wet, and strong. His patient is leaning towards him off the bed just enough to taste Mohinder and test the waters of the timid offer.

They kiss more passionately than ever, nipping and sucking like it will be the last time they'll touch each other. Sylar's hand meanders up Mohinder's back when the doctor tilts farther down, and he fists a weak grip of soft, plentiful curls. He's rewarded with Mohinder shifting up to sit on the bed, pressing his chest flat against Sylar's in a half-laying position. Sylar swears he can feel their hearts dueling behind clothing, flesh, muscle and bone. Eyes closed tightly, he allows natural senses to guide him, feeling greatly lost and confused without his abilities.

He runs a hand down Mohinder's jaw taking in the harsh prickle of stubble, and realizes that Mohinder hasn't shaven in a few days. The feeling turns him on even more when his memory flashes to rough, blind groping in their car at a rest stop; muggy air and hands fumbling with his cheek sand-papering against Mohinder's in a heated frenzy to tug each other's clothes off.

A muffled protest escapes Sylar's lips when Mohinder shifts again and straddles him on the bed. Confused, his doctor pulls away, hands resting on either side of Sylar's head, panting and fighting the urge to wiggle down onto the hard length digging into his bottom.

"What is it? Do you want me to stop?"

_Fuck, no, I don't want you to stop!_

But it feels far too familiar to Sylar's recurring nightmare and he fears that in thirty seconds Mohinder will be squeezing his throat and demanding answers.

"Is this a dream?"

Mohinder snickers lightly and then stops at the sincerely worried expression of the man below him. It's foreign; anxiety isn't something he's seen much of on Sylar's face.

"No, Sylar. This isn't a dream. Maybe I shouldn't be-"

"-No!" Sylar grabs Mohinder's shoulders to keep him from climbing off and curses the needy whine beneath his request. "Please…stay. Don't stop."

Sylar thinks he's harder than he's ever been. Masturbating in this box of a cell hasn't been much of an option to him for fear of cameras or even someone walking in on him; someone like Mohinder. A weeks worth of pent-up sexual frustration is pressing amazingly hard against his stomach, trapped underneath Mohinder's burningly warm body.

He arcs up in a silent plea when Mohinder, whispering soothing words of promised release, kisses and licks down his neck.

It's the initial feeling of soft, bony fingers on his cock that makes Sylar twitch, and when they start to slide up and down the sensitive flesh he moans deeper than he ever has into Mohinder's mouth.

Sylar waits; prepares for everything to cease, including his breathing, and fights the urge to give in no matter how much he wants it. Because if this is another dream or even a sincere trick, the last thing he needs is to feel embarrassed for having been duped after orgasming like a puppet on strings.

But Mohinder doesn't strangle him. Mohinder's face never turns hard, his words never turn harsh, and his hand keeps adding pressure and the occasional teasing brush of fingernails to his erection.

Agile hips rock down against his groin and Sylar's eyes flutter closed at the brow-knitted, lip-worrying face of an angel touching him in ways that he's only dreamed about lately. But this is real; he smells the musk of lust and he feels Mohinder's sweaty palm sliding like lava on his erection. He tastes the exotic man on his tongue and on his lips. His mind thrives with overload of everything _Mohinder_ seeping into the folds of his brain.

It's when a skilled thumb toys with the head of his cock in slow massaging circles that Sylar comes in a seizing of muscles.

A soft, low, "Shhh," is whispered against his lips before Mohinder claims another kiss to muffle Sylar's moan.

As he relaxes slowly, the white blanket of ecstasy fading from his vision, Sylar's muscles tingle in a fit of over-stimulation that he hasn't felt in a while. It's everything; perfection from his savior and most definitely _not_ a nightmare.

When Mohinder finally pulls back Sylar can feel his doctor's ignored erection against his thigh, but it doesn't seem to matter because Mohinder is looking down at him with a satisfied smile.

"Mohinder, why did you-"

Sylar doesn't have time to ask the question before a soft click from the door alerts to a visitor.

Clambering off the bed, Mohinder throws a sheet over Sylar's lower half to hide the staining evidence of their lust, and fumbles for the needle and vial inside the pocket of his lab coat.

"Ah, welcome back. Just finishing up here," he smiles at the guard pushing through the door while drawing out a proper dosage of the clear fluid.

"Seems there was a mix-up down there," the man mumbles, eyeing Sylar's flushed, sweating form.

"Yes well, those things happen in facilities like this one."

Mohinder flashes Sylar a devious smirk before kneeling back down and taking his arm gently. They share silent glances, unsure of what to say because a previously established boundary of safe conversation is now shattered. Table-talk is out the window and pillow-talk tempts their tongues.

"Thank you, Doctor," Sylar coos smugly after being administered his shot. He knows as well as Mohinder that he's _really_ showing appreciation for much-needed human contact.

"You're welcome, Mr. Gray."

Standing and wiping the beaded sweat from his forehead, Mohinder gathers his things and smiles one last time at Sylar before exiting with a painfully hard erection, yet an incredibly satisfied grin.

Sylar sighs looking over at the stack of extra plain white pajamas folded neatly in the corner of his cage. On shaky legs he climbs out of bed to change his pants with the scariest thought he thinks he's ever had.

_I would stop collecting for that man._

* * *

It's one in the morning when Mohinder finally glances at the clock hanging above his fridge.

Sitting at his desk and toiling over the thick stack of various blood results, he's trying desperately to puzzle together what in the Company-issued drug is hurting Sylar. The small file they've given him on its contents, however, does an excellent job at leaving key pieces of information out.

He sighs, leaning back and letting his eyes drift to a spot on the ceiling that holds more meaning than any random guest in his apartment could ever know.

Matt and Peter had both begged him to find a new place; warned him of the repercussions of haunting memories. While his brain urged Mohinder to listen, something in the pit of his stomach kept him tied to what little reminders of Sylar he had left. And, despite what Peter had told Mohinder about the terrible sight of seeing him hanging broken on the ceiling, nobody except Mohinder and Sylar really understood what went on that night.

It had started with the expected violence; Sylar throwing Mohinder around the room in what both men had assumed was simply a required play in their game. It was distressing for Mohinder to watch him struggle with the need to destroy, but being torn with the want to fix. They had created too much of a bond in the preceding days, and as Sylar's fist would connect with Mohinder's body, equal amounts of hurt would spread on both faces over unnecessary aggression.

It had ended with a truce. Mohinder knelt panting at Sylar's feet, sputtering out wounded pleas. Loosening his grip on Mohinder's hair, Sylar had not been but two seconds away from crouching down to hold his bleeding soul mate when Peter Petrelli made it known that he was clambering up the apartment steps.

Sylar had sensed the battle to come and, wanting to keep Mohinder safe, stored him gently away on the safety of his ceiling. Not until Peter appeared did both men resurrect their game of hate to uphold a façade they knew was expected out of man and murderer.

Now, staring up at that very spot, Mohinder basks in its special meaning. To everyone else who'd heard the story from Peter's lips it serves as a painful memory of what a monster could do to a frail, innocent man. To Mohinder it provides evidence to his theory on the loving companion Sylar is capable of being.

Mohinder doesn't realize he's been staring at the ceiling for five minutes, lost in memory, until the cell phone on his desk rings and vibrates wildly. He jumps in his seat and glances at the caller I.D. ; Noah Bennet. This is the last thing he needs.

"Hello?"

"Hello Mohinder, just checking in. How are you tonight?"

"I've been better."

"Anything I can help with?"

"I'd be surprised if you _would_ help, Noah. Being cryptic seems to be your passion lately."

"Confidentiality is important, Doctor Suresh. Especially concerning the material you're working with."

"Furtive information should be out the window when you start killing a man, Noah."

"So it's as I assumed. Gabriel isn't doing well?"

Mohinder sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Leave it to Bennet to start caring only on the brink of disaster.

"As I've been telling you every day for the past week, his stats are steadily dropping."

"That's unfortunate. Have you figured out why?"

"It's obviously the drug you're having me give him. I'm not an idiot, Noah. You're trying to execute him, aren't you?"

"Of course not. We need him, Mohinder. Or have you forgotten why you're doing this?"

"I never forget a threat."

"Not a threat; an agreement. Keep doing your job and we'll keep away from Molly."

Gritting his teeth, Mohinder swallows a slew of curse words bubbling up for the man black-mailing him into helping the Company.

"As his doctor, I'm advising you to tell me _what_ is in the drug that's causing him harm. If I don't know that, I can't keep him alive long enough to get your information."

"Is that coming from a place of business, Mohinder, or a place of obsession?"

"_Excuse_ me?"

"One of our guards saw you kissing him the other day in his cell."

Mohinder swallows loud enough for Bennet to hear it through the phone. He was ignorant to think that the man wouldn't have reported Sylar lunging off the bed in passion to tongue him. Thank his Gods he hadn't been caught doing what he did today; a much less innocent act.

"_He_ kissed _me_, Noah."

"And you did nothing to stop it. Tell me, am I going to have to remove you from this case and bring Molly in for testing instead?"

"No! No, it's nothing. A slip-up. I'll get you what you want." A thought pricks Mohinder's mind instantly – he has the chance to take the upper hand. Why he hadn't noticed before, Mohinder couldn't say. He levels his voice before demanding, "Under _two_ conditions, that is."

"Conditions? You're hardly in the place to-"

"-You have no idea how close I am, Bennet. Give me a little and I'll get you everything."

There's a frustrated sigh on the other end, and Mohinder knows he's won.

"Fine. What is it you need?"

"Get rid of the guard. He only serves to make Sylar more private during our discussions. Let us be alone in the cell and I'll get more out of him."

"Done. And the second request?"

Mohinder smiles. He feels powerful for the first time since this ordeal started a month ago; since Molly was forced to help the Company find Sylar and he was talked into helping them in order to save her from a life of captivity.

"Tell me the component in this drug that's making him sick."

A pause from Noah nearly had Mohinder's heart in his throat with anticipation.

"Cacodylic acid."

He all but drops the phone, fumbling to press it harder to his ear in shock.

"_Are you serious_?! You're giving him _arsenic_?"

"In an extremely low dosage."

Mohinder finds himself suddenly on his feet yelling at air as though Bennet is in the same room.

"That means _nothing_, Noah! No matter how small the quantity, if you give a human being _arsenic_ for several days in a row it's going to have a negative effect!"

"We know what we're doing, Dr. Suresh. It's the only chemical we've successfully used to instigate apoptosis in the DNA of those with abilities."

"I _hardly_ think you know what you're doing. Apoptosis causes a slew of problems, the least of which includes cancer and multiple organ failure!"

"It effectively blocked his abilities, didn't it?"

"Yes but that's beside the point. Any hope you may have had of turning Sylar into a normal member of society will be long gone by the time he realizes you're giving him a deadly disease!"

"You'll just have to work a little harder at getting information from him before that happens, now won't you?"

Mohinder feels tears stinging his eyes. Not because of the terrible situation he's managed to get himself into, not because he's slowly killing another human being – one he suddenly realizes he loves – but because he knows, for some reason, Sylar deserves better. Sylar deserves better because he can be a good person if the world stopped trying its _damndest_ to make him a bad one.

His voice quiets to a dangerous tone. There's no coming back from this game, so he'll have to play it through till the end to prevent as much damage as possible.

"I suppose I don't have a great deal of choice."

"Keep doing the right thing, Mohinder. Do your job and help rid the world of a dangerous man. A man who killed your father."

He knows, God _he knows_ those last few words were meant to encourage him into slaying Sylar. But Mohinder's blood now pumps with a fuel of hatred towards the Company, more potent than any odium he's ever felt for his father's killer.

"Expect your information tomorrow," he says to Bennet before snapping the phone closed.

He'll get it, he's sure - but on his own terms.


	4. Chapter 4

**-Day 7-**

Mohinder trudges towards Sylar's cell; needle in hand and white lab coat flowing out behind him. He's trailed by a guard who, he was assured by Bennet, would only be there to oversee Sylar's daily injection.

Still fuming from last night's phone conversation, Mohinder bursts through the door with a little more force than he should have, startling the captive inside.

"Sorry," he mumbles, offering a meek smile at Sylar's wide eyes. Mohinder glances down to a book that had been dropped in shock. "What're you reading?"

Sylar grins, picking the text up and flashing its pale green cover.

"Anger."

"Ahh, I didn't think you cared for it much."

The ailing man sighs and runs shaking fingers through his hair.

"It's interesting. And what else am I gonna do in here?"

Mohinder can only frown at how much worse his appearance is. Another haunting sign of his failure as a human being was sitting hunched before him, eyes now vacant of resentment and full of defeat. He hadn't thought it would hurt this much to break the man down. The only thing left to do was finish this brainless agreement he had with Bennet, and fix what he's damaged.

"I suppose I could bring you more if you're done with it."

"That would be nice. Can I keep this?"

Mohinder is briefly taken aback by Sylar's interest in the subjects contained within the book, and he smiles. A truly heartfelt grin of feeling proud at having succeeded to help Sylar, even just a little. He can't stop now; he's on a roll.

"Of course."

Moving towards the bed, Mohinder pulls a gauze pad from his lab coat pocket and, glancing back at the guard once, cleans Sylar's arm.

Brow knitting together, Sylar looks from Mohinder's blank face down to the gauze. He's about to ask why the cloth lacks antiseptic when Mohinder flashes him a dangerous look, cutting off his thoughts.

"Time for your shot," he says, loud enough for all ears in the room to hear. With his back to the guard he's blocking any view of the needle, eyes still locked on Sylar's and narrowed as if trying to communicate a telepathic plea for the man to play along.

"Okay doc," Sylar replies, taking his hint.

He breaks his stare to watch Mohinder press the syringe's stopper, expelling his would-be dosage of the drug onto white gauze that quickly soaks it up. Gradually feeling the cold, wet medicine soak through to his arm, Sylar scrunches his face a little in discomfort. He's all the more confused as to why Mohinder is faking the shot, but acting in this place, he's discovered, is something he's is quite good at.

"Ouch."

Mohinder grins at the added fib on Sylar's part and moves quickly to toss drug-soaked material into the trash. Turning back to the guard and making sure to show his empty needle, Mohinder nods once and smiles as the man turns to leave.

When the door clicks shut, Sylar wastes no time.

"What the hell?"

"You don't approve of my helping you?" Mohinder counters, raising a brow to Sylar's baffled look.

"I've got no problem with it, Doctor. Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little skeptical of your motives."

"Lets just say," Mohinder reveals, sitting down on the bed next to Sylar, "that I'm tired of the disingenuous motives of this place."

"_Huh_. Interesting."

"What?"

"Nothing, you wouldn't believe me," Sylar frowns, waving his hand in the air to dismiss himself.

Mohinder scoots closer until their hips are touching, face interested.

"Would too. Tell me."

"I just thought," Sylar starts with a heavy sigh, "…no…I _knew_ that you were going to help me…at some point."

"Did you now?" Mohinder doesn't know whether to be embarrassed or incredibly pleased. "Why's that?"

"Well, you're far too good of a person not too," Sylar explains, nodding his own assuredness.

A ping of guilt strikes Mohinder. If – _when_ – Sylar finds out that he's here because Mohinder is using him to get out of a threat, he's certain his patient would change that opinion.

"No," Mohinder murmurs, shaking his head and shifting away. "I'm really not." He stares down at his lap, refusing to meet Sylar's tired, dying eyes. He's surprised to hear a deep chuckle coming from the man beside him, and compels himself to look up.

"I think I know you better than you know yourself, Mohinder. Even if you did something with mal intent, it would eat at you until you resolved it. That's just the kind of person you are. Moral, virtuous, caring."

Mohinder gawks unblinkingly at Sylar. He'd known there was an attraction, and that he shared a bond with the man few people understood. But to hear that Sylar thinks so highly of him as a human being is almost too much to accept. If only he understood.

"Or have you done something irrevocably evil that I don't know about?" Sylar teases with a smirk when Mohinder doesn't respond.

"I have, actually."

It slips out easier than he'd predicted but Mohinder is quickly learning that lying to this man is near impossible; big brown eyes innocent and vulnerable. Sylar's demure is even more heartbreaking than he'd imagined it would be at this moment - accompanied by a sickly, shaking breath.

"Then we have something in common." Those eyes are instantly glinting with more than just friendly conversation. Sylar moves closer sporting a comforting smile and Mohinder's stomach spasms at the proximity.

"Yes," he agrees. "And like you, I fully intend on fixing things."

"Need any tips?" Sylar says coyly, leaning into his doctor's personal space.

Flushing, Mohinder's breath quickens. He wants nothing more than to lunge forwards and take Sylar, but he knows Bennet is expecting him shortly in his office. Is there time for this? No, he's got to change the subject.

His lips stammer over the first thing to pop into his brain.

"Di-did you know that crocodiles blow bubbles to attract their mate?"

_Damn you, late-night Discovery channel!_

Sylar jerks back slightly, forehead scrunching down before quirking a single eyebrow.

"You don't say?" His grin is quite telling of his amusement. "Well Mohinder, since you and I live _above_ water I'll have to resort to warm blooded tactics, now won't I?"

Accentuating his proposal, Sylar slides a gentle hand up Mohinder's khaki covered thigh, stopping just short of a growing bulge.

Mohinder swallows hard, thanking Shiva that Sylar is currently lacking super hearing to save him from that particular brand of embarrassment.

"I uh…"

"You what?"

Fingering his belt Sylar hover's pastel lips a mere centimeter from Mohinder's, enjoying their exchange of hot breath.

This is happening too fast, he has somewhere to be and if he slips up now he could risk ruining everything.

"I don't have much time," Mohinder exhales into the other mouth.

"Then make it fast."

The pleading in that voice - a soft whine - is irresistible. Mohinder curses his feeble emotions not a moment before closing the distance between their lips.

Moaning into the kiss, he slides his tongue in to taste everything; devouring Sylar's flavor, his raw surrender, and his vulnerability. Mohinder has never felt such a rush of desire. Heat bubbles in his belly and seizing muscles cause his fingers to tighten around Sylar's biceps.

Months of fleeting memory of their attraction yields to the _intoxicating_ level of passion sparking between them. The best part about this moment, Mohinder thinks, is that he can feel Sylar surrendering under his touch.

He's lost in everything, senses turned up and pounding into his mind to drown out their impossible surroundings and the immoral act soon to be committed. But for the briefest of moments – as he feels Sylar's hand sneak past the waist of his pants – a fire ignites in Mohinder's chest. This isn't wrong; in fact, it couldn't be more right. Injustices are being done to both men and this is the only thing that feels vindicated.

Sylar groans wantonly at his probing tongue and Mohinder realizes precisely how badly they both want this. Rationalization aside, it comes down to basic human need that neither can stand to ignore any longer. This moment is theirs – two trapped men desperate for something to embrace and console life's misfortunes.

A possible test of what the _hell_ might happen when all of this is over. Mohinder has yet to think that far ahead and frankly, it scares him to death.

All fear is pushed aside when a trembling hand grasps his length, Sylar breaking the lip lock to plant wet kisses down Mohinder's neck.

"Oh,_ Gods_."

The constant quake in the larger man reminds Mohinder of the weakness at hand – purely physical for he knows Sylar is screaming on the inside to tear him apart.

He pushes gently with his body and the silent swap of dominance occurs; Sylar retreating and following Mohinder's lead. But the lack of strength seems invisible when Mohinder catches the look on that pallid face. It's fiery and intense with a yearning for pain and searing hot touch. Sylar wants to be hurt just as much as Mohinder needs to hurt him, and the sudden realization of this understanding strikes Mohinder like a blow to the face. Love is knowing exactly what your mate wants without hesitation.

Sylar is standing then, pulling Mohinder with him, and setting the stage for their show. The moment their bodies leave the creaky mattress, he is slammed against the wall by chocolate hands. Hands that, in any other situation, would be far weaker than his. Hands that are now wringing in his Company issued tee-shirt as an eager mouth crashes against his. This side of Mohinder, he decides, is one well worth relinquishing himself to.

Khaki pants now hang off Mohinder's hips, eager to fall. Sylar aids them with a gentle nudge, shelving his thumbs on protruding hipbones while the cloth slides down with gravity. Hungry teeth are worrying his bottom lip, Mohinder bouncing gently onto his tiptoes every few seconds to uphold dominance in the kiss. It's when a hand leaves his chest and trails to the thin white fabric covering his groin that Sylar lets out a feeble gasp, causing Mohinder to pull back.

He watches Sylar's head clunk back against the wall, taking in a range of pleasurable emotions as they fleet across his face with each rough massage.

"Do you want this?" Mohinder demands through gritted teeth, the need for validation coming through in his tense actions. _Do you need me to save you_ is what he's really asking. Even though he knows the answer, hearing it is vital.

"_Yes_," Sylar breathes out, eyes flicking open to look at him, half-lidded. "Please, yes, _I want you_."

Mohinder can feel the blood rushing through Sylar's erection as it stiffens. In a frantic motion he tugs those annoying white pajamas down, elating momentarily over the Company's no-underwear policy, and strokes Sylar with the hot flesh of his hand.

Crouching down he presses his lips to the head of Sylar's cock, tongue darting out to taste. Just as he remembered; a slight salt flavor with sweetness to it that, as Zane, Mohinder never questioned. But now he wonders how such a destructive person could taste so pure. The combination of sweet and savory causes Mohinder's mouth to water as he licks a stripe up the engorged length.

He senses the ailing patient go weak, knees giving slightly as Sylar slides a few inches down the wall in ecstasy. Mohinder stands and moves quickly to turn them both and push Sylar stomach-down onto the bed, draped over its edge. He tugs his own boxers down and kneels; hasty, trembling movements like they're two teenagers fucking before parents come home from a night out.

Mohinder winces at the ice cold contact of the hard floor under his knees, another reminder of their unforgiving surroundings.

He has to stop himself, take a deep breath, and remember that while pain is desired by the man in front of him, torture is not. Sylar has endured too much of that in this tiny cell already. Mohinder takes in the sight of Sylar's back, still clad in his white shirt, rising and falling with deep waiting breaths. His hands are fisted in the bed sheet, prepared for the ripping pain to come.

Mohinder places a soothing palm on Sylar's spine and sucks on two of his own fingers, coating them with as much makeshift lube as possible.

A sharp gasp and a tensing of muscles occur as the digits tenderly slide into Sylar, and Mohinder's hand never leaves his vertebrae. Instead it smoothes soothing circles, feeling tight muscles underneath a thin shirt. Mohinder's own cock twitches at the notion of this body being _his_.

Sylar whimpers and twists the sheets in his fists when the fingers scissor apart, stretching him. Despite how badly he wants to mar, Mohinder can't suppress the feelings of guilt and pity. He knows what it feels like, having been the bottom in such acts for so long, used by many people – including himself – to fill voids in human desire.

He cranes to plant a calming kiss on Sylar's hip, slipping his fingers out when he feels the body finally relax around him. The shuddering sigh that escapes his lover is one of partial content; this contact is gradually filling that abyss for Sylar, and it drives Mohinder to act quickly. He spits onto his hand, remorseful for not having a better source of lubrication, and coats his throbbing length.

Lining himself up Mohinder runs a hand up and under Sylar's shirt, feeling the repetitive bulge of his spine. He wants to stroke as much as possible in this short time. He needs to remember in case something goes wrong and he _can't_ fix this. He has to store it all away and-

"_Hard_," comes a gruff demand, breaking Mohinder from his fixated touching.

Mohinder takes a deep breath, gripping skinny hips, and presses in with a sluggish motion. Had he been in the right state of mind to ponder, he would have thanked his Gods that Sylar's yell is muffled by a mattress. But Mohinder is too far gone; eyes rolling back into his skull at the incredibly tight and hot body swallowing his cock inch by inch.

Once all the way in he pauses - whether it's out of complete euphoria or to let Sylar adjust, Mohinder can't say. Several moments pass as both men pant out into the quiet concrete prison, the larger of the two shaking with something more than pleasure or pain.

After what feels like an eternity Mohinder is pulling out just as slowly as he pushed in, biting his own lip to confine groans at the burning friction of sensitive flesh on sensitive flesh.

_This is everything_, he thinks as he shoves back in again. He's unable to hold in a throaty moan this time because Sylar, desperate for more, arcs up and pushes back to meet him.

"Fuck," Mohinder grunts, pulling out and driving forwards with more haste. Before long his hips are colliding with Sylar's rear so roughly that the metal bed is scraping forwards against concrete floor. Each jarred thrust pushes it a little further and Mohinder prays that the guard can't hear it through the tightly sealed door.

Sylar is growling then, biting into a sheet that does little to stifle his snarl. He releases the linen with one hand and reaches back, gripping Mohinder's wrist in a gesture that shouldn't feel so damn passionate. But he wants Mohinder to remember who he's fucking; to not get lost in the movements and think about anyone else that may have his heart outside of these walls.

Mohinder responds by sliding that hand under Sylar's chest, gently towing him into a straightened position so his back is flush to Mohinder's front. This allows for a change in angle; the doctor hitting his prostate repeatedly while thrusting upwards.

"God, Mohinder." Sylar rests his palms against the edge of the bed for support while his lover rams in mercilessly from behind. He's vaguely surprised to feel Mohinder's smooth fingers running over the scar on his chest – touching to commit to memory Sylar's vulnerabilities.

Mohinder's lips are on the back of his neck, pressed there as if vacant of any will to move. Sylar doesn't mind at all; they're warm and wet and soft, completely opposite of how numb and cold and pained his knees feel against the hard floor.

The digits dance away from his scar and the attached arm wraps itself firmly around Sylar's abdomen, anchoring their bodies together. He gasps, eyes flying open, when he feels Mohinder's other hand unexpectedly on his cock, pumping in tempo with the slamming hips.

Like last time, it doesn't take Sylar long to reach his orgasm. Weeks of pent up sexual frustration spill out with one long, guttural moan, spurting onto the bed in front of them.

Mohinder follows suit, teeth sinking into Sylar's shoulder for a brief taste when the body around his pulsing erection tightens in its own ecstasy.

He rolls his hips gently while coming; filling his lover with an equal amount of lust, breath hot and sticky on Sylar's skin.

The two drift down slowly towards the stability of the bed, Mohinder lying on top of Sylar. His panting chest duels with Sylar's rising and falling back while his vision comes back from its white-out.

"That…" comes a gravely voice from below him, unable to finish a coherent thought.

Mohinder blinks rapidly to prevent himself from falling into a euphoric slumber, and pulls himself away while taking the liberty of finishing Sylar's statement.

"Was amazing."

Sylar nods and turns slowly in apparent pain from the act, lifting his hips to pull the pajama pants up and easing back onto the edge of the mattress.

Mohinder sets about fixing his own clothing, embarrassed by admiring eyes; Sylar taking his opportunity to layer on the compliments, extra thick.

"_You_ are amazing."

Mohinder blushes when he's tugged over by the hips, Sylar aiding in fastening and zipping his pants. He stares down into large eyes and forces a promise upon himself that he will see this through to the end. Whatever end that may be.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"Takes a lot to bring me down," Sylar replies with a grin, running a palm over the scar Mohinder had been caressing before.

"Shit," Mohinder curses, glancing at his wrist watch. "I have to go, I'm sorry."

"Now you're just making me feel like a whore." His patient elates over Mohinder's momentary appalled glare. "Kidding. Go before they fire you and I'm left alone in this place."

Much to Sylar's surprise, Mohinder bends down and plants an open-mouthed kiss to his lips. He cards dark fingers through short hair before pulling away and rushing out the door.

Sylar is left content, in a daze, and already achingly hard for more.


	5. Chapter 5

"Who are _you_?"

"Bob Bishop. It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Suresh. I've heard many, many good things about-"

"Save your empty pleasantries, _Bob_. If you don't mind, what is it you want? I'm a busy man."

Mohinder ignores the hand extended to him from the latest pudgy employer behind Noah's desk.

"Yes, we know. Bennet tells me you're making progress with Gabriel Gray?"

He bites his tongue, fighting the urge to correct the grating man on Sylar's_ proper _name. The last thing he needs right now is to get into an argument with this new villain over labels.

"Correct." Watching Mohinder intensely, Bennet shifts on his feet. If awareness had been higher Mohinder would have caught Noah's warning glance.

"Wonderful! Then the issue at hand, Doctor Suresh, is one of time. We need the information pending current experiments that require Gabriel's knowledge. Just a few more tweaks to our processes, using what he knows, and our experiment should be complete."

"I won't torture it out of him, so you'll have to be patient." Mohinder rests his palms on the edge of the large desk and leans forward, trying a tactic of intimidation.

"Patience, Doctor, is something we lack at the moment. Great strides are being made towards a safer world where those with abilities and those without can coexist. We're dealing with amazing feats of science that _cannot _wait."

"I understand your egotistical sense of urgency but you're playing God with human life in the most hazardous ways possible."

"We know. Mishaps are bound to happen, but we're _well_ prepared to handle them."

Mohinder grits his teeth knowing he can't win.

"When you realize your inevitable mistakes, I won't help you fix them. I have patients to see so what _precisely _did you call me in here for?"

Ignoring Mohinder's derisive words, Bob smiles and reaches into the desk drawer, pulling out a small black voice recorder. He sets it next to one of Mohinder's tense hands.

"Get his statement. _Today_. Then you'll be relieved of your duties, and free to go."

_Free to go_. As if Mohinder himself is a prisoner here.

Mohinder heaves a sigh, frustrated. He balls his fists on the desk while stifling the impulse to take a swing, and straightens up before snatching the recorder.

His glare moves to Noah who, nodding once in agreement with Mohinder's obedience, shows for the first time a hint of unease in his eyes.

"Fine," Mohinder snaps, stuffing the recorder into his lab coat pocket. "You'll get your precious secrets."

"_Today_, Doctor," Bob reminds him in a scolding tone.

Seeing Mohinder's jaw clench, Bennet steps forwards.

"Thank you, Bob." He offers a friendly smile to their new boss before grabbing Mohinder by the bicep and urging him out the door.

"Let go of me!" Mohinder snarls when the door clicks shut. Noah ignores him, continuing to pull the struggling doctor down the hall, stopping once they come to a vacant lab. "What're you doing?!" He's shoved through the door, which Bennet promptly locks behind them.

"Keep your voice down."

"I'll never understand you. I thought you were a good person! _Why_ are you helping these people?" Mohinder hisses, dropping his voice to a loud whisper.

"Why are _you_?"

"You know very well _why_, Noah! You're the company goon who's been successfully threatening Molly for the past-"

"Mohinder. You're not the only one caring for a special child," Bennet snaps, cutting him off.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mohinder curses himself for not piecing it together sooner. _Of course_ Noah has similar intentions because they have him under their thumb as well. The only difference is he knows how to be a compliant pawn and get what he wants.

"Claire."

"Yes. I'm sorry for the things I've done to you, Mohinder, but I knew if I coerced you into playing along, both of our families would be safe." Finally, an apology that he'd been waiting for. Only now it isn't as satisfying knowing the burden of his own mistakes. He searches in the murky shadows of the empty lab looking for Bennet's eyes, waiting for him to continue. "That's why on good conscience I must warn you."

"Warn me?"

"They're not done, they never will be. Not with you, not with Molly." Noah pauses and the room goes deadly silent with the weight of his words. "Not with Sylar."

Mohinder feels his cheeks flare at the mention of his illicit lover, thankful for the cover of darkness.

"What do I do then? I'm not a combatant, Noah. I'm incapable of handling these people."

"You have more power more than you think." Bennet steps closer and lays an affable hand on Mohinder's shoulder. "Privilege to almost anything in this facility, including level three access cards to their most dangerous patients."

"What are you implying?" He knows. Mohinder is simply reluctant to think about such potentially perilous things.

"You're a smart man, Suresh. Use what you have and get yourself out of this. Get _him_ out before they kill you both."

Impending doom sets into Mohinder for the first time. He'd refused to think about his own death but these people, he knows, would do anything to keep him quiet. This has to end. Sylar is his last hope for survival, and he is Sylar's.

"What about you? Are you going to stay here and continue to be their puppet?"

"No." Bennet drops his hand and reaches into the breast pocket of his blazer. "I'm disappearing, as should you."

He hands Mohinder an envelope.

"_Disappearing_? What's this?"

"Don't open it here, wait until you're both out." Noah lingers until Mohinder folds it up and slips it into his pant pocket. "Inside is the name and number of a man who can help you vanish. For a price, he takes care of _everything_. I've used him more than once to relocate those unfortunate enough to fall into company hands."

"We…I don't have enough money for someone like that."

"I do. It'll be taken care of."

"How will I pay you back?"

"No need. Once you're safe, consider us even for any wrong doings."

Hope. Mohinder now has an abundant supply of hope coursing through his veins; fueling his racing heart. Images of a life with Sylar that he's dreamed about for weeks are flashing through his mind in rapid succession.

"Thank you, Noah."

"You're welcome. Stay focused because there's still a struggle to be had on your part. I apologize for not being able to help you with the difficult task of getting him out, but I leave tonight. Bob's takeover this morning was cutting it close enough for me."

"I'll think of something," Mohinder nods, reassuring himself more so than Bennet.

"I'm sure you will."

He can feel Noah's smile in the dark and a wave of confidence washes over him. Finally, light at the end of a bleak tunnel.

They swap well-wishes of 'be careful' and 'take care', not sure if they'll ever meet again. As far as Mohinder is concerned, he's more than willing to evaporate into thin air and leave everything, even past companions, behind him. As long as he's with the man he loves.

Slumping into a chair and fingering the envelope through his slacks, Mohinder's mind drifts to the first thing he needs to take care of. Somehow, he must throw the Company off on their budding harmful experiments. He grabs a blank lab sheet from the counter and clicks his pen, scribbling the most believable lie he can muster.

* * *

"Welcome back." _Stay._

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by," Mohinder says jokingly. He slides a chair over to sit knee to knee with Sylar just like so many times before, except now he is teeming with the desire to tell Sylar that everything is going to be okay; that he's going to get him out. But for the sake of cunning, he keeps his plan under wraps, only leaking a giddy smile.

"Why are you so happy?"

"I…I just had a good time earlier." It's not a lie, it's just not the whole truth.

"Me too. I hope we can do that more often."

Mohinder's grin widens. _Not in here we won't._

"Possibly. But first things first!"

A slight frown forms on Sylar's lips as he watches Mohinder pull a voice recorder and a piece of paper from his lab coat.

"Read this out loud after I talk, despite what it says," Mohinder directs, handing the script to Sylar. His patient quirks a brow when Mohinder clears his throat and clicks the record button.

"So, Mister Gray. Go ahead and tell me, in as much detail as possible, _exactly_ what you do with the brains in order to gain your abilities."

Mohinder gestures to the paper in Sylar's hands and he starts reading in a lackluster tone.

"After slicing the head open with telekinesis, I peel back the layers of skin and cranial bone. Upon reaching the brain matter I use my fingers to pull apart the frontal lobe," Sylar pauses for a moment, glaring up at Mohinder disapprovingly until he is motioned to continue, "and dissect until I get to the cerebral cortex. This is where, I've discovered, the ability resides in chemical form. And so, I pull the surrounding brain matter away to _chew_ and _ingest_ the material until I feel it start to bond in my body – _Mohinder_! This is disgusting and _completely_ untrue!"

Sylar's face is a mixture of shock and revulsion, waving the paper in front of Mohinder who sighs and stops the recorder. Rewinding the tape to it's beginning, Mohinder is relieved at Sylar's admission to _not _eating brains, but lets it go as a discussion for another time.

"Good, that's the point. We _want_ to mislead them and throw them off course for their experiments. Please, just read it, and try to make it sound believable. I don't care what you say as long as it's far from the truth."

A slow grin spreads on Sylar's lips. Why is Mohinder looking so _fucking _sexy right now? He wants to suck the doctor off for being this devious.

"No problem. After you."

Mohinder smiles and clicks 'record' for the second time, giving his question and staring deeply into Sylar's eyes as the man starts to speak again; this time with passion.

The former killer's voice is low, feral, and annunciating all the right words in a way that sends a chill down Mohinder's spine. Sylar was born to be creepy.

They never break eye contact as the words growl from pale lips, Sylar's lies pouring out with the guidance of Mohinder's encouraging smirk. Doing something this deceitful with the doctor is making him hard. All of the lies trapped between them - lies that they've created together in this tiny room unbeknownst to the bastards running this place - come bubbling up in his gut.

"Thank you for finally complying Mr. Gray," Mohinder says with a small smile before turning off the voice recorder. He slips it back into his pocket and stands, but Sylar's hand immediately grabs his.

"Do I get a reward?"

Mohinder searches the fiery russet pools of Sylar's eyes. He hesitates, wanting nothing more than to give Sylar something to hold onto for tonight; his final stay in this hell.

But if all goes accordingly and Mohinder remains focused, he could give his devotee something so much more.

Pushing temptation aside, Mohinder licks his lips before bending down to kiss Sylar with a slow, intimate massaging of lips. Sylar presses back, reaching to fist unruly curls, and that is when Mohinder pulls away.

"Tomorrow," he says quietly. "I'll be back tomorrow."

The thwarted, hurt look he receives aches and throbs deep in his heart. He drags a caramel hand down Sylar's jaw and turns to leave before his lover entices him enough to change his mind.

All thoughts need to be clear because tonight, Mohinder must plan.

He frowns faintly as Mohinder departs and tears up the paper into as many pieces as he can, destroying the evidence of their deceit.

**-Day 8-**

Sylar is jerked to wakefulness by the sound of his door opening.

This time there is no welcoming smile, no breakfast, and no coffee.

There's only Mohinder holding a readied needle, followed by a rather large guard with a straight jacket.

Mohinder's face is unreadable; moments of worry glinting with each nervous blink of his eyes. He's in the same clothes as yesterday and his entire appearance screams exhaustion.

Sylar says nothing. He rubs his face, standing slowly, gaze flicking from the needle to the restraints.

"I'm sorry," Mohinder says while walking towards him.

"For what?"

He starts to panic at the look of sorrow on Mohinder's face. Is his friend and lover about to do something that he doesn't want to, but has no control over? Sylar backs against the wall, breath quickening. He could fight - throw a punch - but this new guard looks as though he's been given strict orders to be as rough as needed.

"I have to sedate you. They're moving you to another room for experimentation."

Mohinder's voice is cold and low, teeth gritting. Sylar can feel his eyes start to burn and he reacts on instinct, reaching out for his companion, ready to plead.

"Don't let that happen! They'll kill-"

"Hold him!" Mohinder orders, taking a step back. Acting immediately, the guard drops his straight jacket and grabs Sylar by the biceps, easily pinning the weakened man against his cell wall.

"Mohinder! Please!" Sylar's eyes are wide with fear. His doctor steps closer, raising the needle to his neck.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. Sylar's mind begins to race so quickly that his vision blurs. What will happen to him if Mohinder backs down and does what these people tell him to? He was Sylar's last hope and now he's giving in.

Mohinder sucks in a deep breath and jerks his arm to the side, impaling the guard's throat with the needle and quickly pushing the stopper.

In shock, the large man flails his arms out, releasing Sylar and throwing an elbow into Mohinder's gut. Sylar slides down the wall, unable to support his own shaking legs and immediately crawls towards his friend lying curled in a fetal position on the ground.

Stumbling towards the door, the guard pulls the syringe out and throws it weakly, crumbling just short of his escape.

"Mohinder?!" Sylar rolls him over and places a palm to his forehead, checking the doctor.

"Fine…I'm fine," Mohinder wheezes through gritted teeth, still clutching his stomach. He'd never been in a fist fight before, but the few blows he had taken in his life were not _nearly_ as hard as that one. Even when Sylar had been pummeling him in his apartment, the killer had held back out of fear for the smaller man's life.

Relief spreads over Sylar as he helps Mohinder stand and his doctor regains composure.

"And what exactly was your reasoning behind _that_?" He gestures to the now motionless guard sprawled face-first on the hard concrete.

"I'm getting you out of here."

Mohinder's smile is mirrored, but only momentarily, as Sylar realizes the impossibility of that statement.

"We could barely handle one guard, Mohinder. I hope you have a good plan."

Nodding assuredly, Mohinder checks his wrist watch.

"About an hour ago I swapped the morphine drip in a few patients' IV's with dextroamphetamine," he beams, quite proud of himself.

Sylar's mind fumbles over the long word and then gives up.

"That means nothing to me, Mohinder."

"Well basically," the doctor continues, going over to the guard, "that specific medicine will wake them up, and it acts as a psycho-stimulant. So those particular patients will rouse with a certain unstoppable energy and revenge on their minds." Mohinder is grinning from ear to ear as he searches the man's pockets, pulling out a taser and a few other valuable items.

"Manipulating people with drugs? How uncharacteristic of you," Sylar teases. He goes to Mohinder's side and yanks a cudgel free from the guard's belt.

"And I may or may not have left their doors unlocked," Mohinder adds coyly. "Any moment now there will be three liberated and very pissed off patients roaming these halls. It should be enough of a cover for us to slip away."

"And what special powers will we be ducking and covering from today?" Sylar is more than a bit curios. He takes the taser being offered from Mohinder who quickly readies another needle full of morphine. Sylar fights the urge to chuckle at the only form of protection Mohinder feels comfortable with; drugs.

"A pyrokinetic, an unusual man who can excrete acid, and a telepathic teenager with mind control – we want to stay away from _that _one."

"Woah, wait!" Sylar says, grabbing Mohinder's arm. "_Acid_?"

"Yes, odd, isn't it? We've gone through many cells with him. It eats through anything."

He shakes his head in disbelief, not knowing that ability even existed, and stands when Mohinder does.

"So… fire, persuasive thoughts, and acid? Fantastic." Any other time Sylar would welcome these challenges. But with the drugs still in his system he's vulnerable and thus, so is Mohinder.

"I know, I'm sorry, it's all I could think of. The mayhem should be enough for us to stay low and exit as quickly as possible." Mohinder frowns down at the needle in his hand, knowing it won't offer much protection.

Sylar, having never even held a taser before, is turning it over in his fingers to study the weapon with his original and natural ability.

"We'll be fine." A silent moment passes between them, eyes locked, and he reaches out to brush a stray curl from Mohinder's worried face. "I promise."

It's an empty oath because he's weak, without abilities, and has no idea what lies in wait for them on the other side of the door. But then Mohinder smiles, a bright confident beam, and he_ knows_ that they can do this. They have to.

"Of course. Just follow me. I'm going to take us to the basement and out a back door. It's a longer route but the guards and workers should all be attempting to subdue the patients."

Sylar opens his mouth to ask where he should go if they get separated when an alarm sounds blaringly loud. They whip their heads towards the door and Mohinder reaches out blindly to take hold of his hand.

"Ready?"

Their eyes meet again and Sylar nods once, face hardening to that of customary determination. Mohinder smiles at the familiar look.

He throws the door open and feels Sylar's protective grip clutch so tightly that his fingers go numb.

* * *

Sylar growls when a guard shoves him chest-first into the wall, his arm twisting painfully into his lower back.

"No!" Mohinder yells, trying in desperation to pull the man off. He'd already used his morphine on a fellow doctor who was unyielding in letting the pair escape to a stairwell. They are _so_ close; he can see the basement door.

Sylar pushes weakly backwards, grunting and willing his muscles to work after a week of drugging and immobility. He drops the taser when the guard goes for his other hand.

Hearing clunking plastic Mohinder ceases clawing at the man's body and clambers for the weapon, quickly pointing it and firing a tiny sparking node into his hip.

The guard calls out; head roaring backwards as seizing muscles cause him to lose all function. Sylar spins and shoves him hard enough to push him to the ground, jerking in pain with each electrical burst.

"Come on!" Sylar yells, startling Mohinder out of the awe of what he'd just done. Their hands clasp back together and they take off towards the exit.

A loud scream sounds from behind them and Mohinder can't help but feel extremely mortified as they dodge a burning corpse. The guilt of what he's done weighs down heavily upon him, slowing him to a jog.

"We can't just leave them!" Mohinder yells, wanting to help those he's harmed. Sylar stops and turns to face him, gripping his shoulders roughly.

"If you don't kill them, _they_ will kill _you_! That's how they work! It's them or us, Mohinder!"

He's startled by Sylar's dangerous tone and nods frantically, lurching forwards when Sylar wastes no time in picking up speed again.

They are almost to the door, running past the mouth of an adjoining hallway when they collide with an escaping patient sending all three men tumbling to the floor. The fugitive is spooked by Mohinder's white lab coat, taking him for an enemy, and slams him as hard as he can against the ground.

Sylar is dazed from the collision but struggles to his feet, the smell of smoke making him dizzy. He sees the man concentrating hard on Mohinder who is clutching his own head and screaming; eyes screwed tightly shut. The patient is emitting a mental blast of energy to a doctor that he assumes is trying to prevent his escape. Mohinder's mind fights the blinding pain and screeching sounds but inevitably gives up, falling prey to a forced cataleptic state.

"Stop!" Sylar tackles the man just as Mohinder goes limp against the floor. A brisk punch to the man's jaw knocks him out and breaks the mental hold on Mohinder.

Sylar feels for a pulse on dark flesh and lets out a shaky breath upon recognizing the distinct beat of Mohinder's heart. With a grunt he musters all remaining energy and picks Mohinder up, holding the flaccid body over his shoulder.

Turning back down the hallway and darting out the door, Sylar grins.

A little further and they'll both be safe.

* * *

A voice vibrates and echoes through his thoughts. He feels like he's swimming away from a black abyss nipping angrily at his heels. Glancing down at the darkness he tries to call out but no sound comes from his throat. He's reaching, straining, crying.

The soft noise pulsates through him again and it tingles off his arms and legs, warm and gentle and soothing. _Mohinder._ He turns his head slowly to the right, searching. _Mohinder?_ Louder now but still distant.

And then there's pain; sharp searing agony through his temples that lays railroad spikes into his brain.

He's aware of clammy skin touching his face followed by freezing cold contact. _Mohinder?_ White light blares through his eyelids and his vision fades from black to muted red. The throbbing ache starts to fade as he registers the voice. Comfort washes over him.

"Mohinder? Are you with me now?"

He groans, trying desperately to sit up, but Sylar's firm hand is on his chest, pushing him back down.

"Stay, you're fine.

Mohinder dares to open an eye, squinting barely. His other opens upon seeing Sylar's concerned face hovering over him.

"Sylar?"

"I'm here. We made it."

"Where…" Hand traveling to his forehead, Mohinder looks around at his surroundings. It's only then that he feels the soft bed under his back. "Where are we?"

"A motel. I stole a car in the Company parking lot and drove a while. You've been out for a good two hours, Mohinder." Sylar's eyes narrow looking over the bleary man's face.

"How'd you pay for the room?"

He chuckles and smoothes back Mohinder's curls.

"You nearly died and you're worried about money?" He shifts and motions to the nightstand where a wallet sits. "You had several hundred dollars on you. I guess you were planning on running away with me, huh?"

"You figured me out." Mohinder smiles and leans against the headboard when Sylar finally allows him to sit up. "If you'll come with me, that is."

He's rubbing his temples when a cool glass presses against his mouth, tipped by Sylar's careful hand. Mohinder takes the water between his lips welcomingly and swallows with greed.

"I dunno Doctor, your Company did try to kill me with an overdose."

Sylar pulls the glass away and Mohinder takes in a deep breath, remembering how sick his former patient really is. There is a drug called dimercaprol that will help Sylar flush his system of the arsenic, he just needs to get his hands on some. Mohinder decides, for now, not to worry his companion. The arsenic may not have even done any damage at all. He can't afford to be pessimistic now.

"About that…how are you feeling?"

"The same," Sylar shrugs. "I'm more worried about you though." He runs his knuckles over Mohinder's stubble.

"I'm fine, really. The good news for you is that your abilities should come back soon."

Sylar's face lights up brighter than Mohinder has seen in days.

"Well then," he smiles. "I'll finally be able to teach you a lesson for all those blood tests, won't I?"

Mohinder barely has time to finish a chuckle before Sylar leans in and touches their lips together. It's the sweetest, most delicate contact and Mohinder can't help but take it as a silent 'thank you' for helping him escape. For _loving_ him.

Sylar peppers his jaw with light kisses before pulling away.

"I almost forgot. This was in your pocket." He hands Mohinder an envelope that was sitting on the nightstand next to his wallet. "I didn't open it, though I was incredibly tempted."

Mohinder holds the envelope in his hands, running a finger over his name written in perfect scrawl. Thank the _Gods_ he'd been up planning all night and had forgotten to change clothes before going into work that morning.

"What is it?"

"Bennet gave me this. It's the name and number of someone who can help us disappear, as he put it."

"Bennet?" Sylar scoffs. "That bastard wanted to help?"

"Yes, believe it or not."

"Sure we can trust him?"

"I think so, but we don't have much of a choice. There's nowhere we can go, Sylar. Bennet assured me this man will be expecting our call and will take care of everything we need."

"Okay," Sylar says, raising his hands in defeat. He has no reason to argue because Mohinder is right; theyhave_ nothing_ besides each other and they have _nowhere_ to go. Putting their faith in a stranger who can help them seems like a pretty good idea at the moment. "Open it up."

Mohinder's thumb slips under the seal and tears it with one clean swipe. His fingers tremble as they pull the paper out and unfold it, eyes scanning the words rapidly.

"_Oh_."

"What?" Sylar scoots on the bed so that he is shoulder to shoulder with Mohinder against the headboard, craning his neck to read. A shark's grin spreads at the name of their contact. "Well _son of a bitch_."

"Looks like we're calling Peter Petrelli."


	6. Chapter 6

The crunch of gravel under their feet is rhythmic as they walk towards the diner entrance. 

"So he didn't say anything about me then?"

"No, he deftly avoided the topic of who exactly I'd be arriving with."

Sylar grins.

"He's afraid of me."

"Oh don't be so conceited! You're afraid of him too, I'm sure."

He scoffs lightly and opens the door for Mohinder. They'd just come from a gas station where Mohinder had called Peter on a payphone, and the old friends had been far too interested in catching up. Sylar certainly was not looking forward to meeting their contact.

"Not afraid of him._ Tempted_ would be a better word."

"You are not…I repeat _not_…going to lay your hands on each other," Mohinder scorns, sliding into the booth across from Sylar. "In fact, it'd be best if you waited in the car while I go in and talk to him."

"Now that's not fair! What if I want to catch up with an old friend?"

Sylar's grin is only a cover. In reality, he doesn't want Peter anywhere near Mohinder without his presence. Call it selfishness, call it overprotection, but whatever it is, Sylar feels the raging burn of jealousy in his gut. He knows there's no attraction between the two; Mohinder had a fair amount of opportunity for something to spark during the events leading up to Kirby Plaza, and nothing had happened. Sylar is simply more than a little envious over his friendship with Peter; a bond lacking the disturbing past that he and Mohinder have.

"Then write him a letter," Mohinder smirks back, picking up his menu. He takes the opportunity to look Sylar up and down from over the top of the meal list, admiring the clothes they'd purchased. It had taken more than a little coercion on his part to gain Sylar's agreement that black was not the only color befitting him. So the former killer sits before him, face scrunched while he scans over the various breakfast items; debonair cobalt blue dress shirt complimenting his complexion and perfectly scooped hair. Mohinder pictures the matching black slacks underneath their table and absent-mindedly slides his foot until his shin rests between Sylar's legs.

"Footsie, Mohinder?"

He chuckles, noticing the faint reddening of Mohinder's chocolate cheeks as he breaks the stare on Sylar's chest. Mohinder doesn't, however, pull his leg back.

"I just like your new clothes, is all."

"You can do more than ogle you know. I'll even undress and let you hold them later while I touch you."

Mohinder takes the advantage of having his leg between Sylar's and issues a hard nudge into the other man's knee, looking around at the surrounding tables of families. Sylar flinches and goes back to reading his menu under Mohinder's stern glare.

"That would be appealing if there weren't children around."

"They have to learn about that stuff eventually," Sylar murmurs, earning himself another bump. When he looks up again, Mohinder is smiling and his heart skips a beat.

Their waitress comes bouncing up to them a few moments later, notepad in hand.

"What can I get you two? Coffee to start?"

"Yes, please. Two with cream and sugar," Mohinder says politely, knowing what the other man likes. They share a glance; Sylar basking in the ease of someone who is so familiar with him, and Mohinder finally feeling comfortable enough to admit he knows Sylar as a person, not a killer.

"And to eat?" she asks, shifting on her feet. Sylar barely catches the small flirtatious smile she flashes Mohinder.

"I'll have a fruit salad and a blueberry muffin, please," Mohinder requests sweetly, handing her his menu. Sylar is making a mental note to scorn his lover later when the waitress turns to him and offers the same flirty grin.

"And you?"

"Italian omelet, please." He hands her his menu and winks once, satisfied in her attraction to both of them. Its then that Sylar realizes he may have a bit of a jealousy problem.

"Got it. I'll bring your coffee right out," she says before exiting to the kitchen. His pleased gaze drifts to Mohinder who, mouth agape, quirks an eyebrow.

"What?"

"No chocolate chip pancakes, Mister Sylar? I thought they were your favorite!"

"They are. I just figured…we're starting a new life, so why not try something _new_?"

Mohinder's mouth closes and he studies Sylar with a blank face. Feeling as though he may have said something wrong, Sylar stills and narrows his eyes to stare back.

"…Is that okay?"

"More than okay." The edge of Mohinder's mouth quirks up slightly and he reaches across the table to take one of Sylar's pallid hands. "I think it just finally hit me."

Oh, this again. Sylar understands that his lover will forever be upset over the things he did to help him escape, but he has to realize that the company would have done something far worse in return.

"Mohinder, look, you did what you had to do. You _know_ they would have stopped at nothing to-"

"No," he cuts Sylar off. "I mean…it just hit me that I finally have you."

Sylar twists his grip and laces their fingers together, smiling.

"Yes, Doctor Suresh. You have me."

Several moments pass between them with Sylar rubbing his thumb against the back of Mohinder's hand.

"Not a doctor anymore," Mohinder whispers thoughtfully.

"Huh?"

"Well, we get to pick a new job, I'm assuming. I'm tired of being a doctor."

"But you love helping people. And you're fit to be one, Mohinder. You're incredibly intelligent."

"Thank you," he blushes, "but I've done enough good_ and_ bad as a doctor. I think its time for something different."

"What might that be?"

"I honestly have no idea," Mohinder sighs, eyebrows raising as limitless possibilities stream through his mind. He could be anything. "What about you? Don't you want a change?"

Sylar purses his lips and digs at a small patch of Mohinder's flesh with his thumb.

"I guess I'd like to stick to what I'm good at. Maybe there will be a watch shop wherever Petrelli is sending us."

Mohinder beams at the thought of Sylar finally coming to terms with his memories and settling down to continue something he once appreciated, even if it is tied to a terrible past.

"If not then we'll just have to open one for you," he says earnestly, willing to do anything to keep Sylar on the right path. A fleeting thought crosses his mind and he wonders if their silent understanding will last; that Sylar is done killing for abilities.

"No, that would be a lot of money."

"Then I'll work my ass off and save up for it."

He's momentarily floored by Mohinder's drive to make him happy. It's still as foreign to him as Mohinder wanting to leave everything behind; his home, his friends, and his family. He knows he'd said goodbye to Matt and Molly, but Sylar still can't help his guilt over the inevitable ache in his lover's heart from the loss. That level of self sacrifice for someone like him is overwhelming.

Sylar opens his mouth to unleash a rather dirty comment about working Mohinder's ass off _himself _when their waitress bounces back and sets down two cups of steaming coffee.

They smile and thank her, releasing each other's hands under her knowing smirk. Public displays of affection and the accompanying attention is something they'll have to get used to. They'd already experienced a wide range of responses; scoffs, gags, scolding, laughter, whistles, and Sylar's particular favorite from a long time ago– an older man slapping Mohinder on the ass and telling him how attractive they both were. Unfortunately he'd still been under the cover of Zane and was unable to do more than simply swear at the man. Now, things are different. Sylar _dares_ the world to try something like that again.

"What's the matter?" Mohinder asks, seeing him deep in thought.

"Nothing." He doesn't want to bring up any topic involving their past. Too much is invested in painful memories and if they're ever going to move forward, they can't keep looking back. And so, he regrettably lies with sarcasm. "I was just thinking about how much fun it will be for you to see Peter again." Okay, maybe not a complete lie. He _has_ been pondering their meeting through green eyes.

"Ah," Mohinder says, taking a sip of his coffee. "You can't possibly be jealous over that."

Sylar doesn't answer; he only shifts in his seat and growls quietly.

"Sylar! Why on earth would you be jealous over me seeing an old friend?"

"Because!" he snaps up at Mohinder, then takes a deep breath to calm himself, lowering his voice. "For just _that_ reason. You two are good friends and…"

"And what? You don't think you and I are good friends?"

"We _are_. It's just…well he obviously hates me and there's no telling what sorts of things he will say to try and talk you out of disappearing with me."

Sylar grows embarrassed at his admission and frustrated at the entire situation. He starts to fidget and, to take his mind off the subject, pulls a small container of jelly to the center of their table and concentrates hard on trying to move it with his mind.

"Sylar, don't be ridiculous," Mohinder replies, watching him. "I just risked my life and said goodbye to everything I know for you. Peter Petrelli isn't going to change my mind. I won't even give him the chance to." He pauses and narrows his eyes at Sylar who is ignoring him. "If he even starts to say something negative about you I'll cut him off and tell him I won't be persuaded. He's a friend but that changes nothing - are you even listening to me?!"

Sylar stops concentrating when he realizes the jelly isn't going to move, and shoves it back towards its original spot on the table.

"They're not coming back," he snarls through gritted teeth. What makes this situation with Peter even worse is that he'll have no way to defend himself or Mohinder against an omnipotent empath.

"Your abilities?"

"Yes."

"They will, I promise, you just have to be-"

"_How long_?" Sylar's tone is low, dangerous, and quite honestly scares the hell out of Mohinder. It sounds too much like the old Sylar, the murderer, and there's no way he's going to let him revert back to that.

Mohinder slides out of the booth with haste and grabs the other man by the wrist, jerking him out of his seat. Sylar has no time to protest as he's pulled across the diner to the men's bathroom, gathering stares.

Mohinder flings the door open and a quick scan of his eyes and ears tells him it's empty. He shoves Sylar in and closes the door, locking it.

"What the hell Mo-"

The name is cut off form Sylar's lips as Mohinder pins him against the wall and attacks his mouth with a fervent kiss. This is the only known remedy of helping the former killer calm down and shut up.

Their make out session lasts for a minute; Mohinder's hands sliding up and down Sylar's torso, over the silky cloth of his new shirt.

Sylar whimpers deep inside his throat when Mohinder finally pulls away, gasping for air. He takes Sylar's bottom lip between his teeth and tugs lightly before reprimanding the taller man.

"I understand your concern, but you need to stay calm. We aren't out of this until Peter helps us vanish. So I need you to _accept _that he's going to, and I need you to _not_ plot his demise…for me." Sylar stares down into the other's pleading eyes, incredibly turned on by the showcase of dominance. He's sure Mohinder can feel his erection pressing against his thigh, but his lover cleverly ignores it. "_Please_?"

"If you shove me into bathrooms like that more often, I'll do anything you want me to."

Mohinder chuckles and pulls back, catching the soft groan of protest from Sylar when the body heat leaves his erection.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Sylar grumbles and nods in his defeat, straightening out his clothes a bit. _Curse Mohinder for using sex like that._

"Fine, fine, fine. I'll be nice to the human bomb."

Mohinder rolls his eyes.

"Cute. And I promise, you _will_ get your abilities back." He needs to assure him of that so they dodge any pending temper tantrums on the subject. But he's always vaguely aware of a voice inside his mind telling him that if Sylar's powers don't come back, they have a more serious problem. He takes in a shaky breath at the horrifying thought that his lover could be dying. "It's just a matter of time."

"I trust you."

If Sylar hadn't been in the room, Mohinder would have run to the toilet and emptied the contents of his stomach. He can't stand simply waiting to see if he gets better, but they don't have the proper circumstances to visit a hospital. How would he even explain arsenic poisoning to a doctor? For the hundredth time in his life, Mohinder has no idea what to do.

"Let's go back out there before our waitress thinks we fled without paying."

He offers Sylar a meek smile, unable to continue the topic, and takes his hand to lead him to their awaiting breakfast.

* * *

"How much further?"

"We're almost to Maine, and then it should be another forty-five minutes or so."

"I still don't understand why Petrelli moved to a cabin in the woods. He has all the power in the world and he shuts himself in like a hermit?"

"Nature can be incredibly soothing. Peter's abilities cause a lot of mental and physical turmoil, I'm sure, so I can understand him wanting to escape somewhere calm."

"I'm just saying. He could be living in a mansion next to a _soothing_ waterfall for all I care. You know; actually use his abilities for happiness."

"Happiness is different for everyone, Sylar. We're prime examples of that."

Mohinder cracks his neck to the side, incredibly stiff after an entire day of driving. He keeps his foot steady on the gas pedal, wanting to make it Peter's by their scheduled time.

"I suppose." Sylar leans forwards in the passenger seat to fiddle with the radio, but Mohinder quickly bats his hand away. "What?"

"We should be using this time to talk."

"Talk? About what?"

"Anything and everything."

"Okay," Sylar says nervously, shifting his long legs under the glove box. _What the hell do normal couples discuss?_ This is incredibly different from their previous road trip when he was Zane. No room for lies or secrets; only truth and emotions, things that Sylar definitely is not used to being open about. "So…should we get a pet?"

"What kind of a pet?" Mohinder smiles.

"I dunno, a dog or something. Definitely not a cat."

"What do you have against cats?"

"They lay around all day doing nothing, and only let you pet them when they _want_ you to," Sylar growls out as though he has had a rather rocky past with felines. "Moody bastards."

"Alright, no cats. A dog would be lovely." Mohinder is quite enjoying this ordinary topic. "What would we name him?"

Sylar blinks out the window at whirring pine trees. He's never had to name anything besides a fish before.

"Uh…"

"What about…Gabe?"

"…That's not funny."

"It's not supposed to be! I think it's a cute name."

"That's _precisely_ the problem."

"What, you don't like being cute?"

"I thought we were talking about dogs here…"

"Well now we're talking about you, and I think you're adorable."

Sylar doesn't know whether to growl at Mohinder or kiss him madly.

"I'm anything but adorable. And Gabriel Gray was the biggest dork you'll ever meet. He was blind without his huge glasses."

"Do _you_ need glasses, then?"

"Yes but I refuse to wear them."

Mohinder makes a mental note to help Sylar pick out a pair of trendy spectacles. If he was able to convince him of a new style of clothing, then it would be easy to assure Sylar of the need for eyewear; especially if his lover plans on going back into the tedious business of fixing watches with small parts. For now, he gives up on the argument.

"Well then, will you settle for being called sexy?"

"…You think I'm sexy?" Sylar questions with the slightest hint of hope in his voice.

"Extremely!" _Bend-you-over-the-desk-while-you-fix-watches sexy._

"You're not so bad yourself, Suresh," he replies with an extremely satisfied smirk. Reaching over to his chauffer, Sylar makes good use of their close proximity and massages the scalp underneath incredibly sleek curls. He wishes he had the courage to tell Mohinder _exactly_ how attractive the man really is.

Cute is not the correct word, and sexy just doesn't quite cut it. Not for this dark God with his caramel skin, huge brown eyes, chaotic ebony locks softer than silk, and plump lips made for sucking. He could never tell Mohinder how he simply adores wrapping his fingers around those skinny hips and running them up his back to feel the muscular build of such a tender man. He can't verbalize how Mohinder's skin feels against his; searing hot and velvety like heated honey slipping between his hands. How Mohinder's voice is always calm and soft but demanding in a way that makes Sylar's cock twitch no matter what the man is babbling about; that accent sliding from behind blinding white teeth. Sylar thinks if he were to pick up a dictionary at this very moment and flip to the word beautiful, there would be a picture of Mohinder Suresh. Exotic, breath-taking, stunning…perfect. He'll have the courage someday to admit his most exposed feelings.

"Something wrong?" Mohinder asks with one of his dazzling smiles. Sylar blinks rapidly.

"What?"

"You're staring at me."

"Oh, sorry," he apologizes while quickly retracting his hand. Mohinder lets out a soft groan of protest at the loss of a free scalp massage.

"Don't be, I like your eyes on me." He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, anxious to get to Peter. Mohinder could sit and do nothing for the rest of his life as long as Sylar was there touching and staring. "Ah, I see the state sign!"

A sigh of relief and excitement shakes through Mohinder's body and Sylar finds himself ogling once more. He risks vulnerability and reaches out a hand, laying it gently on Mohinder's upper thigh.

They smile at each other with mirrored thoughts of a happy life together pulsing through their minds.

"Good," Sylar exhales as they roll to a stop at the Maine tollbooth. For once he'll be relieved to see Peter Petrelli.


	7. Chapter 7

"What're you doing over there? You've been quiet for the past hour."

Mohinder shifts as much as possible in the cramped driver's seat, rubbing an eye while glancing at Sylar who is hunched over a small notebook.

"Sketching."

"Sketching? I didn't know you liked to draw!"

Sylar shrugs.

"I only sketch things that intrigue me…hold my attention. Clocks, nature - that sort of thing."

"Lemme see!" Mohinder grins, flicking his eyes from the road to the paper being heavily guarded by Sylar's large hand. Now he understands why his lover had practically bounced when they'd purchased this small notebook at their last stop.

"Uh, no…no I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" Sylar looks up to see a pouting face that could shatter the heart of the toughest man alive. But sketching is something he's always kept private; only drawing what takes his breath away and thus, revealing his biggest weaknesses.

"Because…well, because…it's not done yet."

"Oh you're lying! I saw you signing your name in the corner!"

_Damn it_.

"No Mohinder I really don't think I want to show you." Sylar is startled when his boyfriend flicks on the blinker and pulls to the side of this rather desolate two-lane highway they'd been traversing for the entire day. He shields his drawing, holding it close to his chest. "Why'd you stop?"

"Show me," Mohinder demands, throwing the car into park and turning in his seat.

Sylar shakes his head no.

"Please?"

"I…its…its not very good. I'll offend you." And he truly believes he will. Nothing could ever capture the beauty sitting before him.

"It's a drawing of _me_?!" Mohinder gasps. "Now you _really_ have to show me!" He unbuckles his seatbelt and goes to grab it from Sylar's hands but his lover recoils even more, batting him away.

"All right! Okay. Just…let me fix something on it first."

Mohinder nods and watches intensely as Sylar pulls it away from his chest and runs his pencil over a few more areas. The artist erases a last remaining line and sighs deeply.

"I'm honored you would sketch me," Mohinder says encouragingly, desperate to see this mysterious drawing.

"Just…don't laugh."

"Never!"

Sylar reluctantly hands the notebook to his boyfriend with a grimace on his face, hoping to God he doesn't come off as a frivolous hobbyist. When the sketch reaches dark hands, Sylar loses his breath.

Mohinder's jaw drops and he goes completely still. Several moments pass, an idle car whooshing by their vehicle, before he can speak.

"You…you modest bastard! _This is amazing_!"

Blinking rapidly, Sylar can't fight the slight quirk of his mouth or the reddening of his cheeks.

"Its nothing really, I just…well, you were driving and the sun was coming through the window and you looked…"

He struggles for the words that he hadn't been able to express earlier; how do you tell someone that they are the epitome of stunning?

_Just like that, I suppose. Now or never. _

"Mohinder, you're the definition of the word beautiful and you're everything I wish I was and…I'd do anything for you. I _will_ do anything for you, to make you happy…to make up for the things I've done. I hope you know that."

This wasn't exactly what Sylar had planned when he started drawing the God sitting next to him, but he feels a door in his heart swing open at having finally confessed it. Unfortunately, Mohinder isn't talking back. Sylar shifts again and scratches his head, wondering if the fire blazing on his cheekbones is very noticeable.

And then Mohinder is moving forwards in his seat, setting the sketch gently onto his lap and reaching out. He fists his hands in Sylar's shirt and yanks the man over to close the gap between them. Sylar lets out a surprised noise when their lips clash together and Mohinder goes about sucking his mouth until they are both gasping for air.

When they reluctantly pull apart, Sylar sees something in Mohinder that steals his breath again. His lover looks more serious than he ever has; eyes alight with passion.

"You're forgiven for the things you've done, as long as you promise to never leave me."

Choking in a breath of air, Sylar grips the back of Mohinder's neck and pushes their foreheads together. His vision blurs with tears that carry the weight of those words. Mohinder forgives him and everything he's ever dreamed about is laying itself out in front of him.

"I will _never_ leave you."

"I think now is the proper time to say that nobody has ever made me feel special like you do, and I'd like you to stop because I'm far from it."

Sylar doesn't believe that he's the first person to show this man how amazing he is.

"Mohinder, surely you've had men _and _women throwing themselves at you your entire life. How did that not make you feel special?"

A dark thumb toys absent-mindedly with Sylar's chin, feeling the brash scrape of stubble and dipping into the hollow just below a plump lower lip. Mohinder shakes his head.

"That was all lust. You make me feel _loved_."

_God yes I love you. I've never loved anyone before and it's scary._

Sylar nods his comprehension and releases Mohinder's head.

"Fair enough. But you _are_ special and I'll keep drawing pictures of you until you realize it," he teases. They sit back into their respective seats and Mohinder buckles his seatbelt. He picks the sketch back up and stares at it a few more moments before speaking.

"As long as you draw yourself alongside me next time." He winks at Sylar and hands the notebook back. "I really do love it. You've got an amazing skill that you should share with the world."

"It's something I'd rather keep private with you. Sacred."

Mirrored smiles fleet across both sets of lips at their new understanding. Sylar wonders if they'll ever stop delving so deeply into each other; if their relationship can possibly get any more intense. Mohinder throws the car into drive pulling back onto the highway towards their destination, and he makes a silent prayer that they never will.

"This is it?"

"I believe so," Mohinder says, rolling their car to a stop at the mouth of a long dirt trail. "He said there is no road, only a path, and to leave our car."

"Right." Sylar scoffs at the familiar feeling that Peter is wasting his abilities by hiding away like this. He tucks his notebook under an arm and climbs out, starting down the path next to his boyfriend.

With each step further into the heavily wooded area he feels his apprehension grow towards seeing Petrelli again. But, for Mohinder, he tries desperately to smother those feelings with what he remembers from 'Anger'. He can control himself because Mohinder needs him to. "I wish I'd thought to grab your book before we left the Company."

"That's fine, it was just paper. As long as you used it then it served its purpose."

"It cured my boredom, if that's what you mean." Sylar is more than a little unwilling to admit that his rage was broken down by mere words in a book.

"Did you read all my notes on the pages?"

"No." _Just rubbed them on my face._ "I tried to, Mohinder, but your handwriting is impossible to decipher. It's beautiful, don't get me wrong, but it looks like another language altogether."

"Ah yes, the perils of knowing English, French, _and_ Tamil. Sometimes they meld," Mohinder shrugs, scratching his head through the embarrassment of not being able to control his bilingual mind. "That's unfortunate because I had written you little messages of encouragement."

"Oh? Like what?"

"Telling you to stay calm…and that I would get you out."

"You knew you were going to from the start then?"

"I knew I _wanted_ to. I hoped the book would help get you through the ordeal. Did you learn from it?"

"There were valid points about self control - something I tend to lack."

"Mhmm. Personally, I used it to help me through my father's-" Mohinder pauses; stops walking entirely to cut himself off from revisiting a memory they've already pushed away. Clearing his throat he sends the conversation back on track. "Think you'll use any of it?"

Sylar has stopped as well. Taking in a cleansing breath he bends down to pick up a smooth stone, grinning as he slips it into his pocket.

"I think so."

Mohinder beams and places a hand on Sylar's shoulder when they start moving again.

"Some of us keep a pebble in our pocket - just holding the pebble, breathing in and out calmly and smiling can help you tremendously," Mohinder declares, reciting what he remembers from the book's pages. "Chapter three."

"You know it by heart?" Sylar is unable to withhold the shock from his voice.

"Only certain parts. You didn't notice me picking up rocks in Montana?"

"No," the taller man chuckles while shaking his head.

Mohinder could go on; tell Sylar about all of the rather secretive things he'd done on their road trip aside from stroking a pebble in his pocket. He could tell him how he'd prayed every night that Sylar would give up the façade before things flew too much out of their control. But Mohinder decides he'd like to keep some things for discussion during sleepless nights after they start their new life together.

"I see red," Sylar grumbles, breaking Mohinder's concentration on the dirt path before them. He looks up through the mess of trees and feels his heart race as the ruby siding of Peter's cabin comes into view.

"Ah, there it is! Come on!"

Excited and ready to end this long journey he grabs Sylar's hand and starts a steady jog towards the small cabin. The path curves sharply to the right and they round the bend, coming up to a set of wooden steps. Peter Petrelli stands at the top under his porch's awning, arms folded.

"Thought I heard the determined heartbeat of Mohinder Suresh."

Peter grins, not daring to acknowledge the dark glare he's receiving from his old enemy.

Mohinder races up the steps and takes Peter into a warm hug, ignoring the scoff from behind them.

"So good to see you again."

"You too. Took you long enough to get here. I was getting worried."

"Yes well, we had to make a few unexpected stops."

Peter doesn't question, knowing fully well what that means.

They release their embrace to the sound of Sylar's heavy stomp coming up the stairs.

"Sylar."

"Peter."

Mohinder shifts on his feet between them.

"Welcome to my home," Peter says, breaking the tension. The door swings open by way of an unseen force, and Sylar grits his teeth in pure jealousy.

_This will be fun_, he thinks. _Watching Peter showcase his powers to dazzle my ability-loving boyfriend should be a blast._

"It's charming!" Mohinder exclaims when they step inside. The cabin is small but just the right size for a single person; one large room with a small walled-in section for a bathroom.

"How cute. Love the flowers on your curtains," Sylar chides sarcastically, receiving a swift bump of Mohinder's elbow into his ribs.

Rebuking the urge to throw Sylar around his _cute_ cabin, Peter ignores him and offers the pair something to drink. Once pleasantries and general explorations of their surroundings are over, they all take a seat in the small living area; Peter on the couch and the other two sitting in side-by-side armchairs.

Sylar takes a moment to look his former enemy up and down. Peter appears to be in good shape, much to his dismay; healthy and stronger with a more muscular build than he'd remembered. His hair is cut short making the boy look older than Sylar assumes he is.

Eyes falling to Peter's plaid button-up shirt, Sylar chuckles low and deep.

"Something funny?"

"You look like a lumberjack, Peter. Living out here in the woods like this, one could easily be fooled."

Mohinder lets out a huff of breath to his left, something that Sylar takes as a warning.

"I cut my own firewood, so maybe I am a bit of a lumberjack," Peter retorts with a smirk. He'll be the better man and deflect Sylar's snide comments with friendly ones of his own. The sharp quirk of Sylar's eyebrow as the man collapses back into his seat tells Peter that his plan is working. "Now. We have some things to take care of, gentlemen."

"Right. So how does this work, exactly?" Mohinder scoots forwards in his chair a little, hands clasped and eyes wide with anticipation.

Sylar's hand snakes unnoticeably into his pocket, fingers stroking the pebble as a constant reminder that lunging at the young man across from him would be less than ideal at the moment. When he looks over, Mohinder flashes him a comforting smile that he could have gotten lost in had it not been for the glaring empath a few feet away.

"We just need to go over a couple things and then I'll go check on your house."

"House?" Mohinder asks, sounding quite pleased.

"Is that alright?"

"Yes, of course! I wasn't sure what to expect. I figured we'd be put into an apartment and shuffled around every so often."

"There's no need to move you around, I'll be efficiently covering both our tracks. The house is nothing huge but it's big enough for two people."

Sylar's eyes narrow as the disapproving tone in Peter's voice seems to scold Mohinder for his recent choices.

"Anything is fine, really. We just want to disappear."

"How exactly did you get us a _house_, Petrelli?" Sylar chimes in to take the brunt of Peter's anger away from his boyfriend.

"I have many, _many_ useful abilities, as you know firsthand."

"Oh, the ones you worked so hard for?"

"I do good things for people _without_ killing anyone. I'd say they're well deserved."

"Now, now Pete. Are we getting a bit egotistical?"

"Ha! You shouldn't talk mister 'You're the villain, I'm the hero'!"

"I'm not the one who nearly blew up New York City!"

"No but you_ are_ the one who killed-"

"Would you two knock it off?!" Mohinder is suddenly on his feet, flicking dangerous glares at both of them. "We don't have time for this, really, and Sylar…maybe you should wait outside."

A hurt look crosses Sylar's face and when he stands up to obey it is Peter who objects, much to their surprise.

"No, he should stay. I can't let you two go without helping him." The empath sighs out heavily, running his hands through his hair.

"_Helping_ me?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean?" Mohinder asks, sitting back down slowly. After a few moments of hovering unsurely on his feet, Sylar sits as well.

"You're a good friend Mohinder, and I care about you." Peter's eyes shift to Sylar who clenches his jaw at those words. "I want you to be happy and if that means letting you live your life with him then I'll push aside our past and make things right."

"What did you mean before, Petrelli? I don't need your help." Sylar's impatience is grating on his nerves but Peter ignores it - for Mohinder.

"You do actually or you wouldn't be here. I help people disappear but Bennet knows you two could have done that on your own with your abilities. I _thought_ something was up when he introduced me to that healer a few days ago. It makes sense now."

"Healer?" Mohinder asks.

"Yeah, he was a really old guy but didn't need my help at all, which I thought was weird. Noah had us meet and then he told me that you two were going to need help but-"

"Get to the point, Petrelli,"

"Fine. You're powers are gone."

Sylar shifts uncomfortably, having hoped Peter wouldn't notice. Mohinder is the one to ask what they are both thinking.

"How did you know?"

"Well for one thing he would have used them on my already. Also, I'm an empath. I can sense that stuff."

Sylar rolls his eyes and leans forward. Without abilities the only thing he has left is intimidation. Putting on his best evil glare, he growls out an amused response.

"How astute of you. What…are you going to _fix_ me?"

"I don't want to, but for Mohinder, I will."

Sylar's anger bubbles up in his gut; Peter shouldn't get to say that beautiful name so often.

"Why do _you_ care if I have abilities, Petrelli? Wouldn't it cut down on your competition? Wouldn't it comfort you knowing your precious friend Mohinder is safe from the big bad killer without powers? Why don't you just admit-"

"You're dying, Sylar."

"_What_?" Mohinder stares wide-eyed, though deep inside he'd known. He feels as if someone has just shoved his heart to the bottom of his stomach.

Voice cracking, Sylar speaks in disbelief.

"_Dying_? How?"

The empath finds his fear endearing, and suddenly he _wants _to help.

"Cancer." Peter looks over at Mohinder whose thoughts are racing wildly about arsenic, Primatech, and guilt. He decides to leave the latter for them to discuss in private. "Company drugs, I assume. I've seen it before, only now I can actually help."

Sylar searches the wall above Peter's head and then drops his eyes to his own pale, trembling hands. He'd felt so worn down lately only he hadn't shown it to Mohinder to spare him the worry.

"God, oh God…help him. Please, Peter."

"I will. If he'll let me of course."

Sylar doesn't respond - gaze glued to his lap. Surrounded by death since everything started with Chandra Suresh and now when face to face with the grim reaper, he feels like a scared child. Why hadn't he been this afraid when stabbed with a Samurai sword? Because, he thinks, now the stakes are higher. Before he only had himself to lose. But now that Mohinder is his, now that Mohinder _loves_ him, he can't die. He can't leave Mohinder alone in this despicable world to fend for himself. Sylar's heart clenches in pure dread.

Peter senses it along with the wounded pride of an enemy, and he stands to move over to Sylar's chair.

Mohinder's eyes are glassy with tears as he watches two adversaries clashing together in a twisted fate. He shivers when Peter crouches next to the former killer, hand reaching cautiously to Sylar's chest. Everything is moving so slow and if it hadn't been for a tear rolling down Sylar's cheek, he would have been worried a physical battle could erupt. Mohinder's body twitches in the desire to stand up and brush it away, tell Sylar to be strong, but he can't bring himself to break this moment.

Sylar stays perfectly still, unable to look his savior in the eye when Peter's strong hand plants itself against his heart. Everything is tense; air hanging thick and silent with static around all three men, and Mohinder doesn't dare exhale; can't even move as he grips the arm of the chair white-knuckled.

And then Peter's eyes flutter closed, Sylar's following suit as he gives in to something he can't control. Mohinder realizes how frustrating it must be for a man who worships domination in every aspect, and a sense of pride washes over him watching his lover relinquish control.

Sylar thinks of Mohinder the moment a white hot heat flashes though his chest; eyes flying open and mouth gasping for air. He can't decide if its pain or release he's feeling but he hears the creak of Mohinder's chair as his lover jumps - senses Peter's hand pushing harder on his chest and the warmth intensifies. It pulsates through his body in an odd thrumming tingle and Sylar decides it feels uncomfortable. Pure and rejuvenating but incredibly abnormal. He manages to look over at Peter and sees that the empath's brow is furrowed down in concentration.

Sylar tries to gather his wits to say something, anything, to tell Peter to stop or keep going – he's not sure which exactly. But the sensation spreads at a slow crawl through his body, down his limbs and then back at an even more intense pulsation.

The heat pools back at its source; his heart underneath Peter's hard and Sylar gasps again when the contact is pulled away, the warmth fading. Without it there he feels cold - shivering, shaking, and whimpering lightly as he feels his body slowly thawing from the disease that had been frozen in his core.

Mohinder still can't speak, watching nervously while Sylar makes soft noises and Peter sits back on the floor, rubbing his face and visibly drained.

"What…that…" Sylar sputters while massaging the spot on his chest where something powerful has just taken place.

"You're welcome." Peter pulls himself off the floor and runs a hand through his hair. Finally able to move again, Mohinder is up in a flash and at Sylar's side, touching his knee and face.

"Did it work?"

"If it didn't then you've got an even bigger problem on your-" Peter's sentence is cut off by a mug from his coffee table flying past him and landing deftly in Sylar's palm. "There's your answer."

Letting out an impossibly long breath of relief, Mohinder runs his fingertips over the mug and grins at Sylar's wide eyes.

"Thank you, Peter…so much."

"No problem, Mohinder," he says back quietly, hoping for the same praise from the man he'd just healed. But Sylar sits in a daze, looking at his own hands with unbreakable awe. "I just need to go check on your house. Two minutes."

Mohinder nods and watches in astonishment as the empath flickers out of visibility, teleporting away. Power, he thinks, will never cease to thrill him.

"Sylar? How do you feel?"

Eyes narrowed in concern, the doctor scoots closer and squeezes his boyfriend's knee. Sylar answers by tugging the man into a forcibly hard clash of lips. When they pull apart Mohinder catches the rekindled flame in Sylar's gaze that had died out with the first prick of a poison-laced needle.

"Better than ever." He proves his point by pinching Mohinder on the ass with telekinesis.

"Ow!"

And then Sylar moves, standing and pulling Mohinder with him into a warm embrace. Mohinder welcomes the hug, burying is face in the crook of Sylar's neck.

"You knew, didn't you? That I was dying?"

"I wasn't certain, but I was pretty sure." Mohinder pauses, searching for the right words to plead his case with. "I just didn't know what to do. I'm sorry."

A long silence follows and he would have been scared to death had it not been for the gentle fingers carding through his curls. After a minute of tender petting, Sylar speaks soft and low.

"We're even then. For everything."

Mohinder nods.

"Even."

Sylar presses his lips to Mohinder's wild locks just as Peter appears next to them, immediately frowning at the scene.

"Ready?" he says, shifting impatiently while the two men break apart.

"More than you know, Peter."

The empath smiles at Mohinder before grabbing his bicep, then nods once at Sylar and plants a hand on his broad shoulder.

Mohinder blinks once, quickly, and when his eyes open again they're standing on the front lawn of a rather quant little house. He stumbles back a step, not used to being shoved through time and space in such a way. Sylar's strong arm wraps instinctively around his waist to steady him.

"You okay?"

"Yes…that was…"

"A rush," Peter finished for him with a grin. "Never gets old."

"I'm sure." Sylar tightens his fingers around Mohinder's skinny hip, clenching away the urge to try that ability for himself. Peter did something nice for him, so he will be good. He dips his other hand into his pocket and brushes it over to the pebble.

"A couple of things before I go," the empath says, opening the door with telekinesis and stepping into the petite home. Mohinder and Sylar follow him in, eyes darting around the slender hallway that leads deeper inside. "Here's the number you can reach me at if you have any problems. It's different than the one Noah gave you. This is my…_personal _number. I figured since I know you guys you should be able to contact me directly." He holds the tiny piece of paper out to Sylar who takes it with a quirked brow. Mohinder breaks away from them, excitement sparkling in his eyes, itching to see the house. He wanders into the next room in time to avoid Sylar's growl of frustration.

"Why are you giving this to me? I'll lose it. Mohinder should-"

"I _know_ you'll lose it. Look at it, memorize it, and give it back."

Sylar clears his throat, biting back an argument and glaring down at the paper until his eidetic memory has the phone number efficiently stored. He smiles contently, handing it back to Peter.

"Done."

"Perfect. Here are your keys."

He's given two identical silver house keys, slipping them into his back pocket.

"Anything else?"

"It's already furnished!" Mohinder's squeal of joy breaks their semi normal moment, bouncing off the walls of their new home.

After a chuckle Sylar calls back, "Good, because we're poor!"

"About that." Peter digs around in the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out a thick envelope. "Here."

Flicking it open, Sylar's fingers skim over the large stack of hundred dollar bills.

"Shit, there must be five grand in here."

"We can't accept that," Mohinder is suddenly behind them, walking around and plunging his own fingers into the money.

"Like hell we can't!"

"Sylar!"

"What?! He's giving it to us, Mohinder. It would be rude to refuse."

"But that's too much."

"Its not, really. I have ways of getting money without stealing thanks to Bob Bishop. Take it. It's just to start you off."

"Peter," the Indian breathes out, taking a step forward to embrace him in a tight hug. "I can never thank you enough. _We_ can never thank you enough."

"No need. It's about time you were happy, Suresh." They pull back with mirrored grins, Mohinder blushing slightly. "Besides…now I don't have to worry about Sylar popping up to take my brain," Peter jokes, smacking the former killer on the arm. "Keep him on a tight leash, Mohinder."

The look in Sylar's eyes sends a chill down the empath's spine.

"You're pushing it, Petrelli."

"Yeah, yeah." He glances back and forth between them before clapping his hands together once. "Alright. I guess I'm off then." An awkward moment passes before Peter's eyes close, and just before he can blink away Sylar grabs his arm.

"Wait."

"What?" the empath questions, turning a disapproving eye to the tight grip on his bicep.

"Can I…talk to you?" Without waiting for an answer, Sylar opens the front door and pulls Peter outside onto the front step. He smiles at Mohinder's confused face before closing the door behind them.

"Something wrong?"

"I wanted to say something before you go."

"Oh? What might that be?" Peter doesn't need to ask, he can hear it racing in Sylar's mind.

_How do I say 'thank you' without sounding like an idiot? I shouldn't even be doing this but I know Mohinder will nag me if I don't._

"I…"

"You?" He tries hard not to grin at the short-tempered man.

Sylar's jaw clenches as he squeezes the life out of his pebble.

"I wanted to say…"

"Yes?"

_Fuck you! I'm trying to get it out._

"What was that, Sylar?"

"Fucking hell, Petrelli. You're such an asshole."_ Thank you._

"I really need to go soon," the boy says, checking his watch and ignoring what he picked up in Sylar's thoughts. "Just say whatever it is you need to say."

_I did already! I know you can hear me right now!_

"Well?"

"Thank you!" Sylar growls out, giving in. "Thank you for helping us. For healing me. For the money. For everything."

Peter can't help but chuckle a little, feeling quite pleased with himself.

"No problem. Take good care of Mohinder or I'll be back to kill you. I know where you live."

"Come visit any time you want to get your ass kicked."

"Oh, by the way. There's a watch shop up for sale down your street." Peter grins and with a playful wink, he's gone.

Sylar is momentarily stunned, staring wide-eyed at the empty space where the boy just was. He isn't sure if he hates Peter for being so nice, or if he hates the fact that he now likes his former enemy. Either way, Sylar returns Peter's smirk a few moments too late, taking his hand out of his pocket and dropping the pebble in his new front yard. No need for such things now.

When he goes back inside and follows the sound of Mohinder's jovial heart beat, he finds his boyfriend in the kitchen propping Sylar's sketchbook up on the windowsill to showcase his latest drawing. He sneaks up behind Mohinder, wrapping long arms around his middle and smiling against his curls.

"You really like that picture?"

"Yes, it's amazing!"

Dark fingers drift lightly over the pencil marks while Mohinder admires the lines and curves. Sylar's careful hand put so much thought and concern into each stroke; he now considers this sketch to be his most prized possession. He's lost in the thought of how special it is when a jolt 

of pleasure rushes through him. Mohinder's fingers instantly fumble to grip the faucet as Sylar's groin presses hard into his bottom, pushing him against the counter edge.

"_You're_ amazing, Doctor Suresh," he purrs into Mohinder's ear.

"Sylar," comes a gasp. "Stop that. Don't you want to explore the house first?"

The taller man stops nibbling down Mohinder's long neck to answer.

"That can wait. I want to taste you right now."

His hands run down the doctor's thighs, hips grinding in again, and Mohinder melts in the touches. He _needs_ to be tasted.

Mohinder spins in Sylar's arms, leaning up on tip toes to capture his lips in a fierce kiss. With a quick jerk of telekinesis and strong arms Sylar lifts Mohinder up and onto the counter, deftly sliding between his knees and pressing their fronts together to deepen the kiss. Vying for control they nip and suck at each other's mouths, Sylar sliding his tongue in to wrestle against Mohinder's.

A soft moan erupts from the darker man when he feels strong hands massaging his ass roughly, sliding him even closer on the counter. He can feel their erections pressing hard and hot through thin denim and Mohinder wriggles to get more friction.

Sylar takes the hint, sliding his hands to the underside of Mohinder's thighs. With a grunt he picks his lover up and guides long legs to wrap tightly around his skinny waist. Their kiss grows more fervent as Sylar starts walking blindly down the hallway, bumping into walls and nicking furniture edges.

"Bedroom?" he murmurs against Mohinder's lips.

"Left."

They turn sharply, the door flying open with telekinesis and slamming against the wall. Mohinder pulls back just in time to be dropped onto their bed.

"Let's not tear up our new house before we can even-"

He doesn't have time to finish before Sylar is jumping on top of him like a lion onto its prey, attacking his long neck.

"Oh, fuck!"

Mohinder's fingers tug on the hem of Sylar's shirt, dragging it up a muscled back and scraping his nails as he goes. A hiss of pain is the response, Sylar biting harder into the soft flesh of his neck to retaliate. He pulls back with an over exaggerated slurp, tugging Mohinder's skin between 

his teeth and standing up from the bed. Mohinder is left staring at him, panting, and tugging wantonly at his own clothing.

Sylar removes his shirt completely, throwing it off to the side and then goes to work on his pants. It isn't until Mohinder attempts to sit up and help that he feels the subtle push of telekinesis keeping him pinned to the bed. It gradually spreads across his entire body, arms and legs gluing to the soft comforter.

"Gods, I missed that ability," he pants out, watching Sylar with lusting eyes. His lover kicks his blue jeans off and plays teasingly with the hem of his boxers, putting on quite the show.

"I missed using it on you. The faces you make when you can't move…_fuck_ Mohinder." Sylar chews on his bottom lip and tosses the undergarment clear across their bedroom. Now completely naked he stands still for several moments, holding his arms out and chuckling at the intense stare he's receiving from Mohinder. "Like what you see?"

"More than you know. Stop being a tease and ravage me!"

How could he resist that command?

Sylar crawls back over the still clothed doctor, growling low and long, sending a violent shiver down Mohinder's spine. He struggles to move on the bed; to reach up and touch; but that only seems to egg Sylar on more. Once he's straddling the restrained man, Sylar bends down and kisses too gently along his jaw line. Mohinder makes a small grunting noise of protest and tries to push up against him, causing another gruff chuckle to sound from his tormentor.

"Patience, Mohinder. We have a lifetime for this."

"Don't care," the Indian gasps. Sylar's fingers are undoing the buttons on his shirt too slowly and his devious lips are kissing that golden skin as it appears. "Need more."

Mohinder's fists clench and unclench as frustration grows. Being pinned down by Sylar's mind with hundreds of tickling and massaging telekinetic fingers is orgasmic in itself. But he needs to touch too; to feel that soft skin under his hands and to lick the salty flesh. He has the sudden overwhelming desire to taste Sylar's cock – to fill his mouth with it.

"More what?"

Unfortunately, it seems he's not going to get the chance. Sylar has easily discarded his button-up shirt and is now rolling blue jeans and boxers down Mohinder's slender hips, kissing the skin of his groin.

"More of you, you ass-AH!"

A quick lick of a wet tongue to his throbbing erection and Mohinder is thrashing harder than ever against his invisible bonds. Sylar sits up for a moment to see the brow-furrowed, mouth-agape 

look on Mohinder's face, grinning in accomplishment. He'd missed that expression more than he thought.

Sylar wets his lips, the taste of Mohinder's flesh sparking on his tongue.

_I could make a fortune by somehow bottling his scent and flavor. _

The soft whimper that escapes Mohinder at the momentary loss of contact snaps Sylar back into action. He settles back down between Mohinder's thighs and slips his mouth around the head of his cock.

"OH!"

Laving his tongue, Sylar's mouth waters profusely. He tightens his lips and slides them slowly down Mohinder's long length as deep as he can until the head presses against his throat. On reflex, he swallows, and feels Mohinder's hips jerk into his hands. Pulling back just as slow seems to have more of an effect on the Indian. His entire body wrenches in a desperate attempt to curl into himself, and Sylar quickly dips his head back down.

"Syyyylarrrr!" Mohinder drawls out, arching his lower back off the bed as much as possible. The mouth on his erection continues to work and he can only squirm, helpless to its ministrations. Just as his eyes roll back, fire building up in his gut, Sylar pulls away and sits up while wiping his mouth. "Wuh-" Mohinder gasps. He groans at the loss but feels his lover crawling back over him, kissing him gently.

It's in this instant that Mohinder finds the telekinetic hold has been conveniently lifted. He wraps his arms around Sylar's neck and with a rough nudge of his hips the pair is rolling until Mohinder is on top.

Sylar removes the invisible touch that had been stretching Mohinder and grunts in surprise, hands trailing down golden skin. Mohinder is kneeling over him, shoving his tongue into his mouth and stroking the taller man's erection with nimble fingers.

"Jesus, Mohinder…"

"Scoot back."

"What?"

"Against the headboard."

Reluctantly, Mohinder de-straddles him and sits off to the side while Sylar shifts backwards. He takes a moment to look the former killer up and down; to take in the innocence and vulnerability of such a tough man. Sylar is flushed with lust, panting and mouth quirking up at the corner in a grin as he leans against the headboard of their bed. He holds his arms out to Mohinder who crawls back over him, taking his cock and holding it upright while positioning it at his entrance. 

The feeling of Mohinder's ass pressing against the tip makes him twitch, fisting dark curls quickly and pulling Mohinder into a rough kiss.

Sylar hears a thud as a hand shoots past his ear and latches onto the wooden board for support. Their lip lock is passionate, breath taking, and perfect.

It only intensifies when Mohinder lowers himself slowly, sinking down onto Sylar's erection inch by inch. He gasps between their open mouths and Sylar swallows the noise before releasing a deep moan himself. Mohinder feels so much tighter that he remembered and his sensitive skin is on pleasure overload.

When he is buried all the way inside his lover, Sylar lets his hands fall to Mohinder's hips for more stability.

"You okay?" he asks while the doctor whimpers through the adjustment to such a large intrusion.

"Perfect."

Mohinder lifts suddenly and drops just as quickly, and Sylar doubles forwards against his shoulder. Both of Mohinder's hands grip the headboard white-knuckled, arm muscles cording as he lifts and sinks repeatedly in a steady bounce.

"Fuck."

A slew of pornographic huffs and moans escape Mohinder's lips as their rhythm quickens; Sylar thrusting his hips up to meet the body sinking repeatedly onto his engorged cock.

The sensation of invisible fingers are present once more, wrapping around Mohinder's erection and stroking in a ghostly way that brings goose bumps over his entire body. He throws his head back, slapping skin on skin in a heated fury to jerk up into the touch and fall back to impale himself.

Sylar's fingertips dig painfully hard into his hips, and Mohinder tightens his thighs around his lover. They are lost in the moment, pleasure building deep inside of them and spiraling down to the base of their equally throbbing erections.

"Sy-Sylar, I'm gonna…"

With a growl of intent, Sylar lunges forwards and pushes Mohinder back so that he's lying flat. He grips a shoulder with one hand and hip with the other, pounding mercilessly into Mohinder's arching body.

"So…good," Sylar grunts with each slam of his hips.

Those words push Mohinder over the edge. His entire body seizes, nails digging into Sylar's back and eyes screwing shut.

"SYLAR!" His orgasm spurts between them and his muscles twitch through each pleasurable wave of sensation.

Mohinder clenches around Sylar who quickly follows, growling deeply against his neck and thrusting in a few more times. He comes inside his lover in a slow release, rocking his hips through the intense bliss.

He rolls off of Mohinder when his orgasm passes, not wanting to crush him as he collapses to the bed.

"That was…"

"I know."

"You haven't lost it, Mister Sylar."

"I know."

They simultaneously think; _I could do this forever. _

Panting the pair shares a look with heavy-lidded eyes. Sylar grins stupidly and Mohinder beams one of his bright smiles.

He's lost in it; Mohinder's eyebrows are raised in amusement, mouth wide and brilliant white teeth showing. His curls are mussed and his brow is slick with sweat that makes Sylar thirsty.

He could gawk until he went blind.

"Love you."

Mohinder curls into him, wrapping an arm around his lean stomach and burying his face in Sylar's chest hair.

"I love you too, Sylar."

He decides now would be the perfect time to recite a quote he remembers from 'Anger'; the only one he memorized as it made him think of Mohinder.

"Because of your smile, you make life more beautiful."


End file.
